Face Everything And Rise
by VoicesOffCamera
Summary: From orphaned kid raised by carnies to Avenger fighting alongside the likes of Captain America, Clint Barton's life has been a series of unexpected turn of events. It was never meant to be an easy path, but Clint would learn that it was one that he was meant to walk. And he would learn that we wouldn't have to walk it alone. [31 Whump snapshots into Clint Barton's life]
1. Scar

**Author's Note: **Hello readers! I live! Welcome to my next Avengers project!

A little background on where the hell this came from: This started off as a response to the Whumptober drabble challenge that went around Tumblr last October. A Tumblr user came up with 31 Whump prompts and challenged fanfic writers to write a drabble each day through the month of October. Well, I learned of this late in the month and didn't decide I wanted to give it a go until November. So, as I was writing _Out of the Ashes_ , I was working on some of these prompts on the side. It was something I was planning to finish up real quick before moving on to a different project.

This has morphed into so much more than just a side project though! I couldn't keep any of the prompts to drabble length, they all creeped up to one shot length. They also helped me work out my characterization and timeline for what will be the universe that my previous story, _Out of the Ashes_ , will live in! So, I've rearranged the prompts to be in chronological order and this has actually turned into a solid follow-up to _Out of the Ashes_! The format is basically snapshots, each prompt a 1000-3000-word glimpse into a significant event in Clint Barton's life. We will start off with Clint in training for SHIELD with Phil as his handler, partway through we will introduce Natasha and Strike Team Delta, and by the end we will see the entire Avengers team!

Couple quick notes to know going in: As far as canon goes, I pretty much abide by MCU canon up through the first Avengers movie. After that I divert into the headcanon that all the Avengers moved into Stark Tower, rebranded to be Avengers Tower, and run missions as a team. I also mix in some Matt Fraction comic book canon throughout, which you will see come into play a few chapters in -wink wink-

All these stories live within my _Out of the Ashes_ universe, but they also stand of their own if you have not read that story. And for those interested, I'm still planning a more traditional sequel to _Out of the Ashes_ in the hopefully near future!

All 31 prompts for this project have a completed first draft! That means my updating of this story should be very regular. I'm planning weekly updates so that I still have time to proofread stories before posting them. The prompt that inspired each chapter will appear as the chapter title.

And finally, a MASSIVE shoutout to **_TheRedScreech_** who has been **INVALUABLE** with helping me brainstorm for many of these prompts! I am forever in your debt, dear!

And with all that out of the way... here we go!

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE  
** **SCARS**

Phil Coulson checked the volume on his cell phone for the fourth time in the last twenty minutes. As it had been the last three times, he found that the volume of the ringtone was not only perfectly audible, but probably a little excessive considering that the phone was sitting just to the right of the stack of papers in front of him on his desk.

It had been four days since he had gotten a call about his newest recruit. In those four days, there had been no fights, no pranks, and no sudden disappearances. Phil felt cautiously hopeful that things were starting to even out with their newest adjustment to the routine.

Phil leaned back heavily in his chair with a deep sigh, rubbing at his eyes which had developed a dull ache behind them at some point. He had been holed up in his office all morning, trying to get as much paperwork done as he could before lunch. He knew the seemingly endless mounds of papers were Fury's way of making it clear that while he supported Phil's decision to remain on base during the training cycle of this newest band of recruits, he wasn't terribly happy about it. Phil was one of his best when it came to running missions, and having him sidelined for up to a year wasn't ideal in the Director's eyes.

Phil checked his watch to make sure he had time to get this last bit of paperwork done and still make it to the recruits' morning training before they broke for lunch. It was going to be close, but it should be manageable. He focused back down on the stack on his desk, only to be startled out of the task just a couple minutes later when the door opened with more force than was strictly necessary.

He looked up to find Clint Barton stalking into the room, a tray of food pinched in one hand. Phil blinked in surprise. Apparently, not only was Clint already out of morning training but he also had time to go down to the cafeteria, a task he normally didn't do without Phil to watch his back. Phil checked his watch again to make sure he hadn't lost track of time.

"You're early," Phil observed.

"Reynolds told me to head out early," Clint reported.

There was something odd about his tone, something too… clinical. It immediately caused Phil to pay closer attention to Clint's movements as he got up and vacated his seat behind the desk. Clint moved stiffly, his eyes flicking around the room more than usual as he moved to take Phil's seat. He was tense about something.

Phil's office was simple with a desk, some filing cabinets and a bookcase. The door was situated on the west wall of the room, while there were large windows that stretched the length of the room on the east wall. Clint felt most at ease when he was sitting on the business side of the desk, where he had a clear view of both the door and the windows, as well as a solid wall at his back. Since the cafeteria was still too much activity for his hyperaware mind, Phil and Clint had been eating meals in here for the past two months, Clint taking Phil's seat and Phil pulling up an extra chair to the other side of the desk.

"Why'd he let you go early?" Phil asked as he settled himself in the seat and watched Clint rotate the tray, noticing for the first time he had two meals on it.

On Phil's end of the tray was a turkey sandwich with all his usual fillings. He smiled as he picked up the sandwich, knowing full well that it was what he usually went for on Wednesdays. Clint was nothing if not quietly observant of little details like that.

Clint shrugged one shoulder, not looking at him as he picked halfheartedly at some chips on his side of the tray.

"Said I had done enough for this morning and I could hit lunch early."

"You don't sound happy about that," Phil pointed out carefully.

Clint sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, his food forgotten for the moment. He crossed his arms over his chest, something Phil noticed that he did when he felt defensive.

"You know, I don't want any special treatment here, right?" There was a note of sharp accusation in his tone.

"I know," Phil told him evenly. "Why do you think you're getting special treatment?"

"He doesn't let anyone else go early," he pointed out indignantly.

"Maybe he thought you needed a break from the group activity?"

Phil knew that the training for that day had been moved to one of the smaller gyms, to leave the larger gym open for one of the higher-level recruit training exercises. A smaller room meant the recruits would have had to stand closer together, something that he suspected had put Clint more on edge.

"That's just it," Clint snapped. "That's what makes it special treatment. I don't need to be fucking babied."

"That's not what's happening here," Phil insisted. "Look, the training program here is brutal, we are fully aware of that, but we are not cruel. We don't throw brand new recruits into the deep end and hope for the best. We'd end up with half as many skilled field agents if we did that. Everybody gets a grace period here and that looks different for each person. Your allowances are just a little more obvious than other people's. But as you're only two months into your training here, there's nothing wrong with that at this point."

"Tell that to the other recruits," Clint mumbled. "Because they look at me like I'm a freak."

"Clint, look at me," Phil demanded and waited until Clint did so. "You are _not_ a freak. All these little quirks are things that we can work around for now because in the field they are habits that are going to keep you alive. Hypervigilance when you're on a mission will be a huge asset. The thing is, in everyday life, it can also be a huge hinderance. So at some point you're going to have to learn how to balance it out. Once you've acclimated more here, I think it'll be easier for us to work through that. You just gotta give it some time for now."

Clint nodded, but didn't look overly comforted. It would take time for him to really grasp the concept that it was okay to accept a little help from time to time.

They ate lunch in companionable silence, Phil allowing Clint the time and space that he needed to decompress from the morning's activities. He could see the knots in Clint's muscles loosening, the tension in his features softening as he leaned back more comfortably in his seat. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had needed the extra downtime.

Clint had been recruited two months ago on his eighteenth birthday, the youngest recruit in SHIELD's entire history. Despite his age, his skills already far surpassed those of the other recruits of his level. An argument could be made to fast track him through the training program, but Phil knew this was more than just training to be in the field.

Clint was an abused and neglected kid who needed to learn how to interact with the world and the people in it.

Clint had grown up in a world of violence and abandonment. Trust wasn't something that came easily to him and he struggled with the idea that he wasn't always in danger and didn't always have to be hyperaware of his surroundings. For Clint, just learning to exist in the SHIELD training program was already proving to be one of his biggest hurdles, as he needed to learn when to be on alert for enemies and when to let his guard down for people who meant no harm.

After they finished lunch, Phil walked with Clint down to the training gym for his next round of lessons. For the first six weeks, Phil had been present for every single one of Clint's training exercises. He didn't intervene unless absolutely necessary. He was mostly just there to provide Clint with a familiar presence in the room. He kept any interference to a minimum and only really jumped in to break up a fight.

Most of his time was spent talking with trainers after the recruits were dismissed, to make suggestions on how to better handle Clint's quirks. The biggest issue that Phil had needed to get the trainers to understand initially was Clint's hearing loss. A childhood injury had permanently damaged Clint's hearing. While most of the time he could hear pretty well, if there was a lot of background noise he had to rely a lot on lip reading.

Two weeks ago, Phil had taken his first step back, sending Clint on his own to his morning training exercises, knowing that he couldn't be Clint's safety net forever. It had been a rough transition, but with four days of no incidents, Phil was hopeful that things were finally evening out.

This afternoon was hand to hand combat. Clint particularly excelled at this exercise, but it also had the potential to turn dangerous quickly, so it was a lesson that Phil was going to stick around for. As Clint went to join the rest of the recruits, Phil headed over to the small set of plastic bleachers that sat at one end of the room. As the class got started, Phil pulled out the paperwork he had brought with him to work on, glancing up between tasks to make sure everything was still going smoothly.

Class was almost half over when it happened.

"Barton, you gotta focus!"

Phil's eyes shot up at the command, immediately going to the middle of the room. His blood pressure lowered as he saw a fairly tame scene. Clint was sparring one of the other recruits, a guy a few years older than him named Davis, going through a particularly difficult take-down maneuver. It should have been well within Clint's abilities, but as Phil watched, the kid stumbled with his footing, allowing Davis to break the hold at the last second. They reset, Davis saying something to Clint, but Clint's eyes weren't on him. With the background noise in the room, Clint's eyes should have been pinned to anyone speaking to him in order to get what they were saying.

Something was very wrong.

Phil stood up, watching as the two attempted the maneuver again, only to have Clint miss the step once again. Now that he was looking closer, Phil could see why. Clint's eyes weren't on the match; they kept darting up to the windows that were set three stories up near the ceiling and the beams and vents overhead. Even as they reset, Clint was shifting uneasily, something that was very unlike him – unless he felt he was in danger.

From months of studying Clint's behaviors, Phil was able to recognize the look in his eyes. He was looking for an escape route. And the sealed windows and beams in the ceiling would be a doable – albeit challenging – escape route in an emergency considering Clint's acrobatic abilities, but they were not ideal.

"Pay attention, Barton! Anticipate your opponent's movements!"

Phil followed the sound of Reynolds' barked commands to the only set of doors to the gym and immediately saw the problem. Reynolds had moved over to the door, apparently talking to another one of the trainers who had stopped by. The two were standing in the doorway, blocking the only easy escape route out of the room.

This went unnoticed by most people, but to Clint, this was something he was fundamentally unable to ignore.

As Phil headed across the gym, the other trainer was disappearing out into the hallway, but Reynolds remained hovering in the doorway. Phil glanced over at Clint and saw that he and Davis were resetting their stances after another failed attempt. Phil reached Reynolds just as the man was opening his mouth to call out another critique. Before he could, Phil grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away from the door.

"What the hell, Coulson?" Reynolds demanded, bewildered.

"Watch," Phil said simply, nodding toward the recruits once Reynolds was a safe several feet away from the door.

Clint's eyes darted to the two of them and there was instant relief in his features. He focused back on Davis just as he was advancing, and a few seconds later, Clint perfectly executed the take down. He even had enough control to keep Davis from hitting the mat too hard. That in itself was an accomplishment for Clint.

"Okay, what just happened?" Reynolds asked Phil so only the two of them could hear.

"Don't block the only exit route when Barton's in the room," Phil told him bluntly. "Makes it impossible for him to focus."

Reynolds glanced over at the door he had previously been standing in front of, realization sparking in his eyes. "Got it," he said with a small smile. "I'll add it to the list."

Phil snorted a laugh. It seemed all the trainers were in on the running joke of having a list of Clint's quirks.

"I appreciate your patience," Phil said lowly as Clint ran through the take-down with Davis a few more times. "He's adjusting well, but some of these habits will take time for him to get a better handle on."

"You don't have to defend him to us, Coulson," Reynolds said, giving Phil a knowing look. "We've all got colleagues who we've had to watch deal with the effects of PTSD. Some of us even have lingering symptoms ourselves from our time in the field. Hell, it's good for the recruits to see what some of the effects are so they'll be able to recognize the signs in their own colleagues someday. After all, it's an occupational hazard given what we do. It's just a damn shame that Barton has had to deal with these kinds of scars so young."

Phil couldn't help but blink in surprise. It was the first time he really considered just how understanding the trainers would be to Clint's situation. Reynolds must have registered the surprise, because he smiled as he went on.

"You know, you should stop in the trainers' lounge sometime," he said conversationally. "I think you might find something interesting in there." Before Phil could question him further, Reynolds was already turning and striding back to the group of recruits. "All right, Bittner and Peters, you're up next! Let's see what you got!"

Phil was left to mull that over curiously for the rest of the exercise. It wasn't until the end of the day when Clint headed back to the recruit dorm that Phil got the chance to make the trip.

The trainers' lounge was a small room nestled in amongst the training gyms, a place for the various SHIELD trainers could go to take some down time between exercises. It was a well-worn room with a few stained couches, an older television set and a frayed pool table. All the trainers were retired field agents and despite all the new technology throughout the base, this particular group enjoyed the old-school feel to their space.

The room was empty as Phil entered. He glanced around, looking for anything out of the ordinary. At first, nothing caught his eye. He walked further into the room, taking in the details of his surroundings. It was a little eerie with the room being so quiet, and he was contemplating leaving, when it caught his eye.

A large cork board was bolted to the far wall of the room with different-sized papers pinned all over it, every kind of handwriting represented. As he moved closer, he saw that they were notes written about the recruits, ranging from things they did well to things they needed to work on, and even who was getting on the trainers' nerves. Phil chuckled a little as he saw the name of a familiar recruit from Clint's class who often let his ego get the best of him, and that he had several notes from different trainers with ideas on how to knock him down a few pegs.

As Phil scanned over the notes, Clint's name jumped out at him. Phil couldn't say he was surprised to see that Clint's name occupied the largest piece of paper pinned to the board, a full sheet of computer paper. There were several different handwriting styles congregated on the page, indicating that several different trainers had contributed. He stepped closer so that he could read it and was honestly surprised by what he found:

 _The Do's and Don't's for C. Barton_

 _Do not walk/stand behind him_

 _Do not initiate any kind of physical contact without permission_

 _Allow him breaks and space from group activities_

 _If there is a lot of noise in the area, make sure your mouth is clearly visible to allow for lip-reading_

 _Give him visual cues when a sparring session should end_

 _Phil Coulson should ALWAYS be present during training in the shooting range_

 _ALWAYS be aware of what he is doing. If he is bored, he will entertain himself in ways that are not always SHIELD-approved_

 _If you cannot find him, look up_

 _NEVER enter into any kind of bet with him that involves throwing or shooting things. You WILL lose._

 _Reprimands should not be accompanied by quick or angry hand motions_

 _Have patience if he asks you to repeat something. Do not make a big deal out of it._

Scrawled at the very bottom of the list was Reynolds' handwriting, obviously the newest edition:

 _Do not block exits while he is in the room_

Phil had to admit it was damn impressive that the list was already so extensive after only two months of Clint's training. It spoke to just how observant the trainers were when it came to their recruits. It also spoke to how much the trainers cared about their recruits, something Phil hadn't seen firsthand until now.

He smiled as he turned and headed back out of the room, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten a bit. Clint was going to do just fine here.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
SLEEP DEPRIVATION **


	2. Sleep Deprivation

**Author's Note:** Special shoutouts to **white collar black wolf** , **ItsJustABook** , **m klindt** , **ZafiraMente** and **Hawaiichick** for reviewing the first chapter! I really appreciate it!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO  
** **SLEEP DEPRIVATION**

" _Hawkeye, I'm not going to tell you again. I'm calling it, so pack up and get back to the safehouse. We need to regroup."_

"All right, Guardian, copy that." From the security of the roof of a building slated for demolition in two weeks' time, Clint took another look through the scope of his rifle. The flag three blocks away that he was using as a wind gauge picked up ever so slightly, and Clint adjusted his aim to compensate. "Packing up now."

There was a pause.

" _No, you're not,"_ Phil accused.

"Nothin' gets by you, Guardian," Clint deadpanned.

An exasperated sigh floated over his comm.

" _Hawk, it's been over seventy-two hours,"_ Phil reminded him yet again.

"You should get a side job as a clock," Clint quipped, though there was a little more snap in his tone than he had meant.

" _That's three nights now that you've gotten no sleep,"_ Phil went on as if he hadn't spoken _. "And I know for a fact that you didn't sleep well the night before this mission."_ He paused, but Clint made no attempt to answer. They already had this discussion several times over the last couple hours. _"Kid, you need to take a break. You need sleep. Then we can come back and finish this."_

"We might not get this shot again," Clint reminded him evenly.

" _You have to be feeling the effects of sleep deprivation,"_ Phil insisted. _"How's your vision?"_

"Fine," Clint said, blinking away the blurriness that was trying to make its way in from his peripheral. "Guardian, you know I wouldn't take this shot if I wasn't one hundred percent sure."

" _I know that, but—"_

"Target," Clint snapped, tensing and cutting Phil off.

The man whose mugshot he had so painstakingly committed to memory had finally stepped out of his residence, where he had been holed up for more than seventy-two hours.

" _Confirm identity_ ," Phil said, easily slipping back into the role Supervising Officer.

"Identity confirmed," Clint assured him evenly, no doubt in his mind as he followed the man with the crosshairs of his scope. "Now's our window. He's heading for a car."

" _Take the shot, Hawk_ ," Phil said.

The CRACK of his sniper rifle echoed off the buildings around him, masking his position.

"Target down," Clint reported.

The target's bodyguards were scrambling, but it was already too late It was over. Clint let out an unsteady breath and flicked the safety on the rifle. He finally allowed his muscles to unclench for what felt like the first time in days, his forehead falling to brace in the crook of his arm.

" _Hawk…. Hawkeye…_ " Phil's voice filtered to him from what seemed like a great distance, rather than from the comm. that was in his ear.

"Jus' give me a minute, Guardian," Clint mumbled into his arm. He knew that at this distance, he wasn't in any danger of being discovered, so he figured he could afford to take a minute as the adrenalin drained out of him.

The world tilted beneath him and he braced his free hand in the gravel beneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the rollercoaster would stop with a couple steadying breaths. The roof beneath him gradually settled and he squinted his eyes back open. He needed to get going. As he gathered the will to get his aching muscles to cooperate, he blinked heavily once…twice…

"Clint!"

Clint snapped his head up as Phil's voice was crystal clear and _loud_. He was about to reprimand his handler for using his real name over the comms. – after all, Phil was the one always harping on about protocol – when he was acutely aware of a presence right next to him. Coming to that conclusion much slower than he normally would, he jerked and rolled away and onto his side, yanking a knife from where it was stored in a sheath at his back.

"Easy, Clint! It's just me!" Phil was taking a step back, holding his hands up to show that they were empty.

Clint heaved a shaky breath and let his arm drop.

"Jesus, Phil," he sighed, a slight tremor in his voice. "You scared the shit out of me." And then he paused, something slowly dawning on him. Carefully, he pushed himself up, wincing as his muscles groaned and leaning heavily on the small ledge behind him. "How'd you get here so fast?" Last he knew, Phil had been camped out in the safehouse across town.

"It wasn't that fast, Clint," Phil said, looking at him strangely as he slowly lowered himself into a crouch. "It took me almost thirty minutes to get here after you stopped responding."

Clint just blinked dumbly at that. Thirty minutes? That didn't make sense. Phil had been talking to him over the comm. a minute ago, and he had responded to him, told him just to give him a minute... Hadn't he?

"Do you remember me saying your name?" Phil asked. "I said it at least five or six times and you didn't answer." Clint could only shake his head, his brain feeling confused and muddled. Then Phil gave him a small, sympathetic smile. "I think you fell asleep, kid."

"Well… shit," was all Clint could come up with as he rubbed at his eyes.

Phil laughed lightly. "Yeah, that's what happens when the adrenaline wears off. C'mon. Let's get you packed up and back to the safehouse so you can get some _real_ sleep, okay?"

"Mmm," Clint hummed, his eyes stinging and his eyelids feeling heavy again, the adrenaline that had jumped him into action leaving him once again.

"Hey, stay awake," Phil said. He moved toward Clint, reaching out and giving his shoulder a firm shake before focusing on the sniper rifle still situated beside him. "Just give me a minute here."

If anyone else on the planet had tried to mess with his sniper rifle, Clint would have gone murderous. Phil was the one person he trusted to be able to disassemble his sniper rifle if the situation called for it. And this situation definitely called for it while Clint struggled to simply keep his eyes open.

A few minutes later, Phil had the case for Clint's rifle securely strapped to his back, and then slung the duffle that contained the power bars and bottles of water that Clint had been living off of over his shoulder. Finally, he turned back to Clint, reaching out a hand.

"C'mon, let's go," he urged when Clint didn't immediately react to the gesture.

Clint's brain felt like it was stumbling through a thick and heavy fog. He wasn't really sure if he reached for Phil, or if his handler got tired of waiting and reached for him. The next thing he knew, he was being hauled to his feet, the muscles in his legs pulling painfully at the movement.

"Jesus, kid," Phil muttered as Clint swayed, his legs dangerously close to giving out from under him.

Phil hooked Clint's arm over his shoulders to help support him, and if Clint hadn't felt the exhaustion down into his bones he probably would have protested. As it stood, he was grateful to not have to support his own weight.

The trek back to the safehouse was a complete blur for Clint. He contemplated several times asking Phil to stop and let him sit down for a minute, but he had to keep reminding himself that if he sat down now there was a good chance he wasn't going to get back up. So, he quietly stumbled along, wondering if the safehouse had gotten farther away than it had been when he had originally made this trip.

Finally, he heard Phil scanning his handprint to gain access to their safehouse.

As they entered, Clint had enough presence of mind to pull away from Phil, shuffling over to the side of the room where their cots were located. After all, he wasn't helpless, just tired. More tired he had been in his entire life, but still, not helpless.

He hit the cot and somehow the usually stiff, lumpy mattress had transformed into the most comfortable bed he had ever lain on. He was pretty sure he drifted off immediately but was pulled back toward consciousness what could only have been a few short minutes later by Phil rolling him to be more squarely on the bed. Then he was pulling at the laces on Clint's boots.

"I know you want to save the whole world, kid," Phil said quietly as he pulled off the boots. Clint honestly wasn't sure if Phil realized that he wasn't quite asleep and could hear him. "But sometimes you gotta take care of yourself."

"No' ina job 'scription, Phil," Clint yawned.

He didn't hear a response, but felt a blanket being pulled over him as he finally sank fully into blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
TUCKED IN**


	3. Tucked In

**Author's** **Note:** Next chapter is here! So, no shout outs this week because the last chapter didn't get any reviews. But I did get a handful of follows and favorites, so hopefully you guys are enjoying this! If you wouldn't mind dropping a quick review with what you think, I'd really appreciate it!

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE  
** **TUCKED IN**

Phil Coulson was a light sleeper. He was also a SHIELD agent. So, when his phone buzzed lightly on his bedside table, his hand was already reaching for it before he was fully conscious.

"Coulson," he mumbled into the phone.

"Uh, Agent Coulson?" an unsteady, unfamiliar voice floated over the line. "This is Anna Bishop. I'm a nurse in the infirmary…?"

Phil bolted upright. "What happened? Is Agent Barton okay?" He was reaching for his boots before Nurse Bishop answered.

"We're not exactly sure what happened," Bishop went on, sounding shaken. "There was a commotion in his room and when we went in, he was gone. We found him sitting on the floor in the bathroom, but he won't let anyone near him."

"Keep everyone away from him," Phil instructed firmly, already halfway dressed. "Just leave him be and I'll be there in five minutes." He hung up without waiting for a response.

He really should know better by now, he chastised himself as he hurried along the deserted hallways toward the infirmary. He had been told that due to the severity of his injures, Clint was expected to be out for the night and it was strongly advised that Phil take the time to go get some rest himself. Having been awake for the better part of three days during this whole ordeal and placated by the fact that Clint was now expected to make a full recovery, Phil hadn't argued.

"Rookie mistake, Coulson," Phil chided himself under his breath as he approached the infirmary.

Clint Barton would always defy medical expectations. The kid was always the goddamn exception that proved every damn rule it seemed. Because it was never the easy way with this kid.

Phil entered the infirmary and blew past the intake desk, heading right for the back of the wing where Clint's recovery room was. Even if he hadn't already known where it was, he would have been able to guess it; there was a small crowd of people by the doorway.

Clint must have provided quite the spectacle.

"Coming through!" Phil announced, pushing through to the room. "Who's in charge here?" His eyes swept around the room, trying to ascertain which doctor was on call tonight.

"Coulson," a man that Phil recognized as Dr. Avery greeted stiffly from the front of the crowd. His arms were crossed over his chest and there was a sour look on his face. Phil wasn't particularly fond of the man, and based on his expression, he already knew that tonight wasn't going to change that opinion. "You need to get your agent the hell out of that bathroom and back in bed. He ripped out his IV and probably ripped some of his stitches which now need to be reset. He needs to get his shit together before he hurts himself even worse."

Without a conscious thought, Phil found his hand pushing harshly into the man's chest, sending him stumbling back a step. Avery's eyes went wide.

" _You_ need to calm the hell down," Phil growled. "Barton is _not_ at fault here. When you've been through a fraction of what he's been through, then _maybe_ you can have an opinion on how he copes. Until then, just stay out of my way."

Phil paused long enough to send a glare at the nurses and orderlies in the doorway, who promptly began to disperse. Then he took a deep breath before he headed to the small bathroom that was attached to the recovery room.

The door was halfway closed, and Phil reached forward, carefully nudging it the rest of the way open, though not going so far as to enter the small space. Not yet, anyway. He had made that mistake before.

"Clint?" he ventured.

He spotted the young agent pressed up against the back wall of the bathroom, clad only in a pair of scrub pants and wedged between the toilet and the wall with his knees pulled up protectively. Clint was pale with a sheen of sweat covering his face, evidence of his spiked fever which had likely disoriented him enough that he had forgotten that he was no longer in danger. His eyes were open and though they moved toward Phil at the sound of his voice, they didn't appear to really see him.

Phil craned his head, but from his angle he couldn't get a clear view of Clint's hands. That was dangerous.

"Clint?" Phil tried again, still making no move to step into the room. "Clint, it's Phil. It's just you and me here, okay? Can I see your hands, kid?"

Clint took in a shuddering breath, his eyes suddenly searching the empty air between them. Phil didn't make the request again. He simply waited. Finally, Clint shifted, swallowing thickly before he slowly raised each of his hands to hover palms out at either side of his head. The first thing that Phil noticed was that both were empty. That was good; Clint hadn't acquired any weapons in his impaired state. The second thing was that his hands where shaking.

That was not good.

With the knowledge that Clint wasn't armed – which was vital knowledge when approaching an injured or cornered Clint – Phil took a small, experimental step into the room, angling the door to stand halfway closed again to grant them a semblance of privacy.

"Okay, you can put your hands down," Phil told him as he crouched halfway across the bathroom. "You know where you are?"

Clint dropped his hands to rest on either side of his head, his elbows braced on his knees. He took in another unsteady breath as his eyes darted around the room.

"I… I forgot," he murmured, his voice seeming to drag up out of his raw throat.

"That's okay," Phil assured him evenly, inching forward. "It's been a hell of a two weeks, hasn't it? It's okay that you forgot where you were for a minute. But can you tell me where you are now?"

Clint needed to ground himself. Phil was just here to guide him.

Clint's eyes darted around the room again before he squeezed them shut. "Infirmary."

"That's good," Phil said, taking another step toward him. If he reached out, his hand would be mere inches from Clint. He didn't do that just yet though. "Look at me, Clint." He waited for Clint to open his eyes, his gaze sliding past him for a moment before snapping back to focus on him. "You're safe here. You know that, right? No one is going to hurt you."

Clint was silent, thinking that over for a painfully long moment. Finally, he gave a small nod and something in his gaze broke.

"I'm sorry, Phil."

"It's okay, kid," Phil said softly, taking the last step that put him right in front of Clint's slumped form. "It's not your fault. It could happen to anyone." His gaze fell to the white bandage that was taped to Clint's side, covering the knife wound that had been infected. It was almost completely soaked with blood. He had definitely torn his stitches. "What do you say we get you back to bed, huh?"

Clint scrubbed a shaking hand over his mouth before he looked up at Phil. "Will… will you stay?"

Something inside of Phil twisted at the vulnerable question. He was still berating himself for leaving Clint in the first place. Clint had been captured and tortured by hostiles for almost two weeks before making a near impossible escape despite serious injuries. It wasn't his first miraculous escape and it wouldn't be his last. Clint was a survivor. But that didn't exempt him from the fallout of dealing with the trauma of what he had to do in order to survive. Phil should have known better than to leave him, even if it was just for a few hours to get some rest.

"I'm not going anywhere, Clint," Phil said steadily. "I promise."

Clint took a deep breath, wincing before he nodded.

It was a trick to get in a position to be able to help Clint up. In the end, Phil stood up and moved next to the toilet, bracing a knee on the closed lid. It allowed him to snake an arm around Clint's back, hooking his hand under his opposite armpit.

"You're going to have to help me out," Phil told him as he braced his other hand on Clint's closest forearm. "On three, okay? One… two… three."

As Clint pushed himself upward, he clenched his jaw, a low groan rumbling from the back of his raw throat at the effort. As he came up to a slightly hunched version of full height, Phil quickly took on Clint's weight in an effort to keep him from having to exert himself too much. But at a glance he could see that the wound on Clint's side was now dripping, probably having all but reopened with the effort.

"Okay, nice and easy now," Phil coached calmly as he slid in beside Clint, guiding the kid's closest arm over his shoulders. "Just a couple of steps back to bed and you can get some rest."

It was a painful journey, Clint hissing between clenched teeth with each step. As they reentered the recovery room, Phil could see Avery in his peripheral vision, but didn't bother giving the doctor a glance, all his focus remaining on Clint.

They were still a few steps from the bed when Clint's knees gave out.

"Hang on, I got you," Phil said as he shifted his grip to better take Clint's full weight.

Clint had the presence of mind to reach for the bed and Phil was able to shift him onto it. He supported Clint as best he could, but the kid still hissed and groaned painfully as Phil helped him lie out flat on the bed.

"Easy, kid. Hard part's over," Phil murmured. "I'm going to reset your IV, all right?"

Clint nodded, blinking heavily but still stubbornly fighting for consciousness.

In his early days as SHIELD's youngest ever recruit, Clint had been a very troubled teenager. One of his more noticeable quirks was his aversion to any kind of physical contact outside of the sparing ring. A fellow recruit had once come up behind Clint and patted him on the shoulder, intending to give him a compliment on a recent sparring session. Clint had almost broken the man's hand.

It was the only way that Clint knew how to handle physical contact in the beginning, a reflex that was so ingrained he had no conscious control over it. It was the defense mechanism of an abused kid who hadn't yet learned that the entire world didn't operate in the same way that his abusers had while he was growing up.

This had made any medical issues during his first couple years more complicated. Clint had warmed up to the only female doctor, Doctor Hendricks, on the staff pretty quickly, but when she wasn't available, he had been practically hostile toward the male doctors. Phil had taken it upon himself to learn some of the basics – like placing an IV – to help ease the process. And even though Clint had come a long way within the last year, it was still often easier on him to have Phil do what he could in these kinds of situations rather than leaving it to someone who was not Doctor Hendricks.

Sparing the doctor only a passing glance, Phil sent Dr. Avery out to retrieve a supply cart like a common orderly. To the man's credit, he put up no complaints, obviously not keen on bringing out Phil's anger again. We he brought back the supplies, Phil pulled on a pair of latex gloves before carefully replacing the IV. He also used some gauze to bandage up the small wound on Clint's other hand where the previous IV had been ripped out.

Finally, Phil turned to the doctor who was still hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

"I need you to fix his stitches," Phil said. His tone was perfectly calm and even – because he knew if he was tense that would only make Clint tense as well, complicating this next part of the process – but the look he leveled on the doctor was enough to move mountains, daring the man to question his orders in any way.

Avery swallowed thickly before he nodded and hesitantly stepped forward. Phil must have looked more murderous than he realized when he had first confronted the man in order to have scared him that bad. But Phil wasn't even a little concerned about that.

"Doc's gonna fix you up real quick," Phil said, turning back to Clint. He carefully perched on the edge of the bed. "Then you can get some rest, kid. Okay?"

Clint watched skeptically as the doctor approach on his wounded side, his muscles tensing. Phil placed a hand on his shoulder, bringing his attention back to him.

"Easy," he told him softly. "I'm going to stay right here."

Clint relaxed a fraction at the assurance, only flinching slightly as the doctor began to pull the torn stitches from the wound. The doctor tentatively offered a numbing agent, but Phil declined even before Clint managed to shake his head. The kid was halfway to unconsciousness anyway, only awake through sheer force of will because there was a stranger in the room with them.

Finally, with fresh stitches and a new bandage, Avery quickly retreated from the room, practically tripping over himself in his haste.

"All right, kid," Phil told him as he reached down and pulled a thin sheet up over Clint, taking extra care to tuck it securely around him without disturbing the IV line. He shifted to the chair next to the bed, making a show of settling himself in. "Time to stand down. I've got watch. Get some rest."

It was usually the best way to get Clint's defenses down, put in terms that he lived and died by.

And it worked. Just a few heavy blinks later – Phil not missing the glances his way to make sure he really wasn't going anywhere – and Clint's eyes slid shut. Another minute later, his muscles relaxed and his breathing evened out. And finally, he drifted off to a peaceful sleep, comforted by the fact that his handler watched over him.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPTS  
** **STARVATION**


	4. Starvation

**Author's Note:** Thank you SO MUCH to those who stepped up and reviewed the last chapter! I very much enjoy reading your thoughts and it definitely helps to keep my motivated! **w** **hite collar black wolf** ; **Lieutenant Tree** ; **Guest** ; **ladyamethyst21** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **LisaG16** ; and **ZafiraMente** , you guys are the BEST and I appreciate the hell out of you!

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR  
** **STARVATION**

Phil answered the phone without much of a glance at the caller ID, not breaking stride.

"Coulson."

" _Hey, Phil._ "

Phil came to so sudden of a stop that to an outside observer it would have looked like he had hit an invisible wall. He reached out to brace a hand on a nearby wall, feeling like the world had suddenly cracked in two and was careening out from under him. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the ID, confirming that he didn't recognize the number.

" _Phil?"_ the caller on the other end was saying when he put the phone back to his ear.

Phil sat heavily in a nearby chair, his legs no longer able to hold him up.

"Clint?" he gasped, hardly believing that this wasn't a dream… or a nightmare, depending on where this was going.

" _Yeah, I… I think so."_ A humorless chuckle drifted across the line.

"I… you…" Phil stammered, his mind racing to catch up with the situation. "Jesus Christ, _where the hell are you_?"

" _Um,_ " Clint muttered, taking in a shuddering breath. " _I'm not exactly… not exactly sure. Any chance you can trace… the call?"_ There was something unsteady in his voice and then there was a crashing noise in the background.

"Yeah, give me a minute," Phil said quickly, yanking his laptop out of the bag that he had dropped at his feet and struggling to set it up while not dropping the phone now pinned between his shoulder and ear. "What was that noise?"

" _Just… needed_ t'sit _._ " His words were slurring together.

Yeah, right. Sounded more like he fell.

"Okay, okay, just hang on." Phil's hands shook as he plugged his phone into the laptop and then put the phone on speaker. "I'm tracing the call now, but it's going to take a few minutes. Keep talking to me, kid. How bad is it?"

Because ' _are you okay_ ' was not the question to ask. Clint had been missing in action after a mission gone sideways in the Middle East for almost four months now. SHIELD had searched relentlessly for weeks and never found one trace of what had happened to him. Two months with no leads and no word… Clint Barton had been assumed dead.

And Phil had been buried in grief since that day.

" _I've had better days, Phil,"_ Clint murmured.

"Are you somewhere safe?" Phil asked.

" _That's debatable,"_ Clint said after a heavy pause.

"Can you _get_ somewhere safe?" Phil amended, tapping on his computer as if that would make it go faster.

" _Also debatable."_

Phil exhaled shakily. "You gotta give me something, kid."

" _I gave you a phone call,_ " Clint pointed out wearily. Phil huffed a slightly hysterical laugh at that before Clint went on grimly, " _I honestly… don't have much more to… more to offer you right now, Phil."_

There was something clearly wrong. It wasn't just exhaustion in Clint's tone; he was struggling just to string together complete sentences. But before Phil could ask about it, there was a ping on his computer as it zeroed in on the location of the call.

"How the hell did you end up in Saudi Arabia?" Phil demanded, even as he was pulling out a pad of paper and scrambling for a pen so that he could write down the exact coordinates. It was over five hundred miles from Clint's last known location.

Clint huffed something between a laugh and a groan. " _No wonder my… my feet hurt."_ There was a pause and when he spoke again, his voice was painfully young and vulnerable. " _How far are you?"_

Phil inwardly thanked any entity that watched over him and his reckless agent because he had finally taken an assignment to get himself out of sulking around the New York base.

"I'm not far," Phil assured him gently. "I'm at the Rome base now. It'll take me about an hour to get geared up and procure a jet. So, we're looking at five or six hours until I can get to you." After Clint had been missing for four of the longest months of Phil's life, the time it would take to get to him was somehow both painfully long and blessedly short. "Can you get somewhere safe and hunker down for a few hours?"

 _Are you going to last for a few more hours?_

It was a question that was screaming to be asked, based on how weak and exhausted Clint sounded. But it was one that Phil couldn't bring himself to voice. Rome was the closest SHIELD base to where Clint was; if Phil couldn't make it there in time, no one would.

" _I… I think so,"_ Clint said unsteadily.

"Get it done," Phil said, a note of authority in his tone giving it the edge of an order, hoping to spur Clint into action despite the exhaustion that weighed heavily on each word the kid spoke. He himself was now up, anxious to get moving. "Is this a phone you can keep with you?"

" _Yeah,_ " Clint croaked, and Phil was encouraged by the shuffling he heard in the background, hopeful that Clint was also getting himself up and moving. " _Picked a pocket for a… for a cell phone."_

"Good, keep that with you and I'll track it," Phil told him evenly. "Find somewhere to lie low and I'll call you on this line once I'm in the air." There was a long pause with no response. Phil paused mid-step, his stomach tightening. "Okay?" he ventured, daring to hope that Clint was still conscious.

"' _Kay,"_ came Clint's mumbled response, to Phil's immense relief.

Phil took a deep, steadying breath as he spurred himself to move again. He desperately didn't want to hang up this phone, but they both had missions to accomplish.

"Hang in there, kid," Phil assured him. "I'm coming for you."

" _Yeah."_ There was the barest hint of a smile in Clint's tired voice. " _I know."_

Hanging up that phone was one of the hardest things Phil ever had to do. But he was immediately dialing again as he moved through the base.

 _"Fury."_

"Nick, it's Phil."

It wasn't often that Phil addressed the Director of SHIELD so informally, but they had known each other for years and Phil already knew that he was going to need at least a portion of what he was about to do off the books.

 _"What's wrong?"_ Fury demanded, knowing full well that the informal address was a red flag.

"I'm taking a jet and heading for Saudi Arabia," Phil told him. "I'm giving you forty-five minutes to clear it with the SHIELD bureaucracy."

 _"What the hell are you talking about?"_

"Clint's alive."

There was a long beat of silence.

 _"Are you sure?"_ Fury asked, a measured amount of skepticism in his tone. This wasn't the first time that Phil had cried wolf after digging up some circumstantial evidence that would always lead to another dead end.

"Absolutely sure," Phil assured him. "I just spoke to him. He's in bad shape, though, and I need to get him out of there now."

 _"You know the kind of time it takes for the Powers That Be to approve one of our jets to fly under the radar into restricted airspace,"_ Fury pointed out.

"I do. And I'm giving you the courtesy of this phone call before I'm wheels up and heading for Clint. I'm not waiting around for some goddamn paperwork while he's out there."

 _"If you give me two hours, I can have this whole thing on the up and up."_

But Fury knew him well and Phil got the sense that he said it more out of obligation rather than an honest suggestion.

"Sir, with all due respect, I'm going to be wheels up in forty-five minutes max," Phil reiterated firmly. "I'm not asking permission. I'm simply giving you a heads up to do what you need to do. Whether that's covering for me or turning me in is up to you."

 _"Okay,"_ Fury finally agreed. _"Make damn sure you stay off_ all _radar, including SHIELD's."_

"Will do."

 _"I'm going to have to do some creative paperwork in order to fudge your departure time."_

"I understand, sir."

 _"And, Phil? Bring our boy home."  
_  
Phil couldn't help but smile, the beginnings of hope just visible at the edges of the expression. "I intend to, sir."

* * *

It took Phil fifty-three minutes to gather supplies and secure a jet. It took him four hours and seventeen minutes to make the trip, landing just outside of the town that he had traced Clint's stolen cell phone to. Using the nondescript utility vehicle he had transported in the back of the jet – because he knew there was no way Clint was going to be able to make the trek on foot – it was another twenty-three minutes into town and to the location indicated on the tracking program on Phil's phone, which should be within one hundred yards of the phone that Clint had used.

The street that Phil parked the car on was uncomfortably busy. As he climbed out, he immediately scanned for a familiar figure, even though he knew he had told Clint to lie low. He had spoken to Clint again briefly after he had gotten the jet in the air. Clint had sounded even more tired and just the effort of talking seemed taxing. Phil had tried calling the phone again midway through the flight, but there was no answer. Nor was there one just an hour before he landed. Or when he had landed.

There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he moved through the streets.

His eyes automatically went to the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. Under normal circumstances, there would be no doubt that Clint would have sought out a higher vantage point in order to feel more secure. But, somehow, Phil knew that wasn't where he was going to find Clint today. The kid could barely string a handful of words together. There was no way he could scale a building.

So, Phil began his search on the ground, beginning with discreet alleyways that provided shade from the scorching sun and enough cover to not be bothered. It was a solid ten minutes of searching before he finally came upon the right alley.

Clint was pressed into the back corner of a dead-end alley, legs stretched out in front of him, head hanging lifelessly to one side and eyes closed. As Phil carefully approached, he could see the cell phone still clutched in the kid's hand like a lifeline.

Phil's breath caught in his throat and he dropped to his knees next to the unmoving the kid.

"Clint?" he said quietly, his voice wavering dangerously.

The kid looked like he was a stone's throw from death. His clothes were torn, with weeks' worth of grime clinging to them. He was scruffy looking with a beard, though it had been roughly hacked short probably with a dull knife at some point. His lips were cracked and bleeding and there were faded bruises and scabbed over cuts on his exposed skin, which was burned and peeling from being out in the unforgiving desert sun.

But the worst of it was how painfully thin and gaunt he appeared. Like he hadn't eaten a full meal in four whole months and might be broken in half by a strong wind.

Phil swallowed and then reached out, placing a hand on Clint's shoulder, unable to ignore the sharp bones that prodded into his palm. He placed two fingers of his other hand on Clint's neck, searching for a pulse. But his fingers were shaking, and he was struggling to keep them steady.

"Clint? C'mon, kid," he said as he shook Clint's shoulder firmly. He hadn't come all this way just to find out he was too late… had he? "C'mon… _please_ … wake up, Clint!"

Clint had always been one to come awake quickly, with a gasp and often swinging. The fact that he merely blinked blearily, his head rolling listlessly on his shoulders, was concerning to say the least. But he was _alive_.

"Goddamnit, Clint," Phil huffed on a relieved sigh that almost took everything out of him. Almost. There was still work to do.

For just a moment though, Phil let his head drop, resting his forehead on top of Clint's head as he gripped the kid's shoulder, letting the relief wash over him in waves. Clint Barton was luckier than most. But Phil hadn't dared to dream that he'd be this lucky.

"Ph'l," Clint breathed, shifting his head and squinting up at him.

"I'm right here, kid," Phil assured him. "C'mon, let's get you the hell out of here. Can you stand?"

Phil could certainly carry him – especially considering his emaciated state – but this wasn't a place where he wanted to attract attention.

"Hmm," Clint hummed, his eyelids sagging.

Phil wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a yes or a no, but he didn't have time to waste. Without waiting any longer, he shifted next to Clint so that he could hook one of Clint's arms over his shoulder. He braced one of his arms around Clint's waist and used it as leverage to lift Clint up to his feet.

But as he brought him up to his feet, Clint's legs failed him, and he sagged against Phil like dead weight.

Taking a steadying breath, Phil shifted Clint and braced him up against the wall of the alley, pinning him by the shoulders to keep him upright. By some miracle, the kid was still conscious, if only barely.

"Clint, look at me," Phil commanded. He felt cruel, but he didn't have times to use kid gloves. Slowly, Clint's hazy gaze raised to meet Phil's. "I need you to focus just for the next five minutes. We can't attract any attention heading for the car or we're gonna have trouble from the locals and we don't have time for that." He paused, letting Clint absorb that for a moment. He squeezed Clint's shoulders hoping to help ground him. "Five minutes, kid. Can you do that for me?"

Clint blinked a few times, and the fog in his gaze cleared marginally. He took a moment to take several steadying breathes, before he carefully nodded.

The action would have been more assuring if it hadn't caused him to sway unsteadily.

"I won't let go of you," Phil assured him. "But I need you to walk as much as you can. I've got a car parked just up the street. You can do this, Clint."

Clint took another steadying breath and nodded again, this time a bit steadier.

Phil was vaguely hopeful as he shifted again. He threw Clint's arm over his shoulder again, letting him lean on him. There was no way around that, but he hoped that they could move quickly enough that no one would have time to give them any trouble.

Clint took a couple stumbling steps as they started out of the alleyway, and by some miracle had some semblance of steadiness as they hit the streets. His head was up and he wasn't tripping over himself, and that was certainly a help.

Phil hurried them through the crowds of people as quickly as he dared. The two of them earned a few curious looks, but thankfully none of those looks lingered and they were able to make it to the car without incident. As he helped Clint climb into the passenger's seat – the kid all but collapsing into the seat – he couldn't get the door shut fast enough. He didn't grant himself even a moment to feel relief, as they weren't quite home free yet. He hurried around to the driver's side, jumping in a gunning the motor.

He made it back to the jet parked outside of town in record time.

Everything was a blur. He drove the car right into the back of the jet, throwing the emergency brake before heading for the cockpit. They were in the air with the autopilot set for Rome before Phil went back to the car. Clint hadn't moved. The kid was in and out of consciousness as Phil carefully lifted him out of the car and carried him over to a nearby cot.

Clint was painfully light – even more so than Phil had expected – and he was struck again by the thought that the kid clearly hadn't had a full meal since they had lost him. He had to be living on sheer force of will alone at this point.

Finally, after a call to a doctor at the Rome base's infirmary and receiving the instructions that the only thing he could really do was hook Clint up to an IV from the med pack he had brought with him, Phil sank to his knees next to the cot. It felt like it was the first moment he had to breathe since he'd gotten that phone call.

It would be another four hours before Phil would get Clint back to the Rome base. Five hours before he would learn just how dangerously malnourished and dehydrated Clint was. It would be three days before he would listen to Clint weakly retell the story of how he had been captured and transported to a hidden compound in the middle of the desert, tortured for two months before he escaped, and spent the next two months struggling to survive in the desert while he searched for civilization. It would be weeks of recovery before Clint could start beginning to get back to some semblance of normal, and months before he would be in any shape to take on even the most basic mission.

But here, in this moment as he knelt next to the cot in the jet, all Phil could focus on was Clint's slow but steady breathing and the way that even in unconsciousness his fingers curled instinctually around Phil's hand.

Against all odds, he was bringing Clint home alive. And for now, that's all that mattered.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT  
** **GUILT**


	5. Guilt

**Author's** **Note:** Apologies I'm a little late today, but better late than never! I'm excited to finally get to this chapter! Special shoutouts to **ladyamethyst21** ; **Lieutenant** **Tree** ; **white collar black wolf** ; **LisaG16** ; **Reagangirl** ; and **Hawaiichick** for taking the time to review the last chapter! I very much enjoy reading your thoughts!

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, and Happy Holidays to all of you!

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE  
** **GUILT**

Before Clint Barton came along, the youngest agent SHIELD ever recruited had been twenty-one years old, a tech wiz who spent most of his time on a base. The youngest field agent had been recruited at twenty-four and hadn't actually been placed in the field on a live mission until he was twenty-five. And even then, he had been part of a five-agent team. Even Captain America – though not technically a SHIELD agent, he was a key factor in the organization's creation – had been twenty-one when recruited, though to be fair he had help from the Super Soldier Serum.

Clint had been four months shy of eighteen when Phil found him, unable to even be legally recruited as a minor. He was officially inducted into the SHILED training program on his eighteenth birthday and had still been a month short of nineteen when he had been given his first official field mission. And if that hadn't been enough, that first mission – along with every mission since then – had been a solo op.

All this was impressive, but when it came down to it… Clint Barton was still just a _kid_.

Clint was strong, stronger than most. But there were still days when Phil couldn't get passed Clint's age. Most nineteen-year-olds were gearing up for college, picking classes and trying to decide on a major and a career path. Instead, Clint was tracking down an arms dealer dubbed the deadliest man on the planet and giving him a bullet to the head.

There were days when Phil honestly wondered if he had done the right thing by recruiting Clint into SHIELD. But he also knew that the path Clint had been on before he met Phil had been a dark one that would have only ended in tragedy. He knew he had saved Clint when he had taken him off the streets and given him a purpose in life.

Phil had struggled with guilt over putting Clint on this path right from the very beginning but, ultimately, he felt he had done the right thing. That was what helped him sleep at night.

But just over three years after Clint joined SHIELD, Phil was forced to question everything all over again.

It was a mission gone sideways. Not the first and certainly wouldn't be the last, but it was the mission that changed everything. The mission where Clint had sacrificed something huge in order to save Phil's life. The mission where Clint lost his hearing.

Despite the situation going completely FUBAR in every sense of the sentiment, Clint had still completed the mission, dragged Phil back to the safehouse and even managed to perform emergency first aid that would save Phil's life before the shock of losing his hearing completely shut him down.

When they were emergency evacuated the hell out of there several hours later, Phil vividly remembered gripping Clint's hand like a lifeline, both for his own sake as well as for the shell-shocked kid kneeling at the side of his cot in the back of the Quinjet. Clint's eyes had started off wide and terrified as they darted around, trying to take in all the activity at once. Then his gaze broke just before he squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, pressing his forehead – hot and damp with fever from the infection his body was already beginning to fight – against his and Phil's clasped hands, blocking out the world.

"It's okay, Clint," Phil choked through the oxygen mask as he heaved air into his lungs with an effort. "It's gonna—" The words burned as they caught painfully in his throat, the reality of the situation hitting him all over again like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Clint couldn't hear him.

Phil squeezed Clint's hand all the tighter, several tears streaking down his face as he felt like his chest was cracking open from the inside. How had he let this happen? He had failed this kid on a monumental level and there was a very real possibility that he wouldn't be able to fix it.

It only took a few days for the infirmary to confirm their worst fears. The damage to Clint's hearing was permanent and reinstatement as a SHIELD field agent was not guaranteed.

It was twelve days before Phil was released from the infirmary.

It was three weeks before Clint opened his mouth and spoke his first words since getting back to base, words that were shouted at Phil in anger.

It was a month and a half before Clint handed a written debrief to Nick Fury about what had happened. Phil leaned against the wall in Clint's line of sight as Clint silently sat in a chair across from the Director. He stoically wrote down answers to Fury's follow-up questions and then left without speaking a word.

Three days later, Clint had his first day of rehab to begin to retrain his body and tactics for his lack of hearing. He lasted about two hours before storming out. It took him another four days to go back and finally accept the help that he so desperately needed.

Phil took formal time off from all SHIELD duties for the first time in his entire career, determined to support Clint though this.

Eight months, three weeks and four days later, Phil stood in the examination room with Doctor Brinson and Clint. This was it. Clint's future hinged on the outcome of this exam. If he passed, he would be cleared to start trial testing, the next step to reinstatement as an active field agent. If he failed… Phil didn't know what the kid would do if he failed. He didn't know what _he_ would do.

Clint's primary doctor was Doctor Jacqueline Hendricks. She was the only doctor on staff that Clint had reached a decent comfort level with and of course she was the only staff doctor not currently on base, as she was loaned out to SHIELD's Paris base where there was a nasty outbreak of the flu wreaking havoc. Going into this, the odds were already stacked against them with a doctor that Clint wasn't familiar with.

It was really no surprise when things started to fall apart. In fact, Phil was impressed that Clint lasted as long as he did.

"I need him to take a deep breath," Doctor Brinson said from where he stood behind Clint, his stethoscope on Clint's back.

Phil sighed lightly to himself. He supposed that given the angle, it wasn't completely unreasonable that the doctor wasn't addressing Clint directly. After all, all SHIELD exams and testing had to be completed without artificial assistance, therefore Clint didn't have his hearing aids in. But the kid had an almost inhuman ability to read lips and it was going to be a slippery slope for Clint mentally if Doctor Brinson didn't take the initiative to speak to him directly.

"He wants you to take a deep breath," Phil told Clint.

Clint scowled but did as he was told. Doctor Brinson repeated the request two more times, with Phil repeating it back to Clint. The kid's scowl deepened each time Phil passed on a request, but Phil was trying desperately not to step in if he didn't have to, knowing full well that he couldn't be Clint's safety net forever. If Clint was going to return to field work, he was going to have to figure out how to interact with a world that wasn't always going to understand him. And Phil was doing his best to respect the path that Clint was trying to walk.

Unfortunately, Doctor Brinson wasn't one to take the hint and took Phil's presence in the room as more of a translator rather than just emotional support.

Doctor Brinson picked up the blood pressure cuff in one hand and reached for Clint's arm with the other. As was his nature, Clint flinched away from the advance, fixing the doctor with a hard glare. He didn't take well to not being told what was going on, had been that way since Phil had first met him. Phil knew without a doubt that this was going to be the moment the situation clicked into focus or completely fell apart.

The doctor was standing in front of Clint at this point, all he had to do was say the words. Phil was internally begging, _Just say the words while Clint can see your lips_. But instead, Doctor Brinson turned his head away from Clint, squarely addressing Phil.

"I need to take his blood pressure."

That's when Clint finally decided he'd had enough. Thankfully, Phil had seen it coming as soon as the doctor had turned his head and Phil was already moving to block the door.

"Hang on, hang on," Phil said quickly as Clint roughly shoved Doctor Brinson away from him, sending the man stumbling.

That split-second head start was the only reason Phil made it to the door first, placing one hand firmly on the door to keep it closed and reaching out the other to placate Clint who was intent on storming past him.

"Just hang on a second. Let me talk to him," Phil said, meeting the kid's fiery gaze.

Clint narrowed his eyes and fisted his hands, and for a moment, Phil was convinced he was going to lash out and shove past him anyway. But then he jerked his hand back toward the doctor, sarcasm and bitterness in the hard smirk on his mouth and his eyes clearly stating a silent: ' _Go right ahead.'_

Phil let out a relieved breath. "Okay, just come back for a minute," he said as he took a risk by stepping away from the door. _I trust you not to bolt,_ his words and body language said. _Trust me with this idiot doctor._

Clint tracked his movements, reading him, and then he nodded. He remained by the door, but he didn't run. Small victories.

"I… I don't understand…" Doctor Brinson stammered, looking completely flabbergasted.

"Okay, you were briefed about the situation, right?" Phil said, careful to keep himself angled so that Clint could still see his mouth and follow the conversation. It was mostly a rhetorical question since he knew the entire infirmary staff had been briefed on the situation. Brinson simply nodded. "Then you know that he is deaf. He can't hear you."

"He seemed to be following directions fine," Brinson said slowly, still obviously at a complete loss.

"Yes, because I was over here doing a fucking parrot impression," Phil said, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "Barton reads lips. If you're talking to him and he can't see your face, he's going to get pissed. Talk to _him_ , not me. He can understand you just fine as long as he can _see_ you. Got it?"

Brinson nodded, realization lighting his eyes. He turned his shoulders so that they were square to Clint.

"Okay," he said, speaking slowly and enunciating an almost comical amount. "I am sorry. Can we try again?"

Clint shot Phil another sharp glare, but Phil was already fully aware of what Brinson was doing wrong.

"Yeah, don't do that either," Phil said, wearily. "Talk normally, just make sure he can see your lips while you do it." Then he shot a look at Clint, knowing that the kid was not blameless here. "And _you_ , take a breath. We're all still learning and adjusting here, okay? Cut us a little slack."

Clint met his gaze, clearly challenging him. Phil held the gaze calmly, crossing his arms over his chest to show that he would not be swayed by the glare. His guilt had caused him to grant Clint far too much slack at times over the last nine months and he was finally realizing that it was really better to treat Clint as if nothing at all had changed. No matter how warranted Clint's frustration was, he needed to learn not to write everyone off at the first sign of misunderstanding what he needed.

Finally, Clint shifted, taking his left hand with fingers splayed out and moving it so that his thumb was touching the middle of his chest, then moving his whole hand up and away from him, adding a slight flourish to the end of the motion, clearly adding sarcasm to the silent sign. _"Fine."_

Phil lifted the fingers of his right hand to his lips and then moved his whole hand down and in Clint's direction. _"Thank you."_

Clint's eyes lingered on him a moment longer than necessary, the look on his face as hard as ever but Phil could see the subtle relaxing of the muscles in his shoulders. Just that small exchange in sign language seemed to instantly put him, albeit marginally, more at ease. Then he turned and walked back over to the exam table, returning to his seat.

It was amazing the difference a little clear communication could make to the kid. And as he watched Doctor Brinson talk to Clint, the knot of guilt in Phil's chest loosened just a bit more.

* * *

 **Author's** **Note:** Okay! So excited to finally get to this point! I've been doing a lot of research on sign language and Deaf culture, so hopefully I will be able to do this some justice. I also kept the details of how Clint actually becomes deaf, because I'm going to have a separate story devoted to that particular mission. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
FEVER**


	6. Fever

**Author's** **Note:** Thank you so much to **white collar black wolf** ; **Lieutenant Tree** ; **Hawaiichick** ; and **LisaG16** for taking the time to review the last chapter! I very much appreciate the support!

Happy New Year to you all!

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIX  
** **FEVER**

Clawing his way out of a heavy darkness, Phil came back to consciousness slowly. His entire body hurt, as if he had just run a marathon in the desert, barefoot and without water. He took in a wheezing breath and immediately fell into a heavy coughing fit, the pain in his chest pulsing dully as his throat screamed.

He hated being sick.

Gingerly, he pushed himself up onto one elbow as he reached automatically for the glass of water on the bedside table even before he groggily blinked open his eyes. It took more energy than it should have just to drink the water, but at least the room wasn't spinning anymore. That was an improvement. Hopefully it meant that he was finally on the mend.

He blinked blearily as he replaced the glass of water, glancing around the safe-house and trying to get his bearings. It was just his luck that not only would he catch the nasty flu strain that was going around the base, but he'd catch it right in the middle of a mission.

The scene that came into focus was a surprising one. Clint was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bedside table that Phil's water glass rested on, his back to the cot. A chair had been pulled over and Phil's laptop set on it: a makeshift television set up. And what was the skilled SHIELD assassin watching? It appeared to be an episode of _Scooby Doo_.

Phil couldn't help but smile despite himself. Clint Barton had a traumatic childhood. So, even though he was twenty-one years old, it was nice to see him enjoying a little youthful innocence.

It took a minute longer than it should have for Phil to realize that it was odd Clint hadn't reacted to Phil's waking. The kid had taken to hovering over him since he had first fallen ill two days ago, mirroring the mother hen habits that Phil often exhibited. That he didn't acknowledge Phil now set off a mild alarm.

"Clint?" Phil rasped, his voice dragging up out of his throat. Clint didn't react, and Phil cleared his throat before trying again, reaching a hand for the kid as he spoke up. "Clint?"

Clint flinched away just before Phil's hand reached him, his eyes darting around in panic for a moment before resting on Phil. He visibly took a beat to calm himself when he saw that there was no threat before he spoke.

"Phil," he said quietly with relief. "How're you feeling?"

"Better," Phil assured him, pushing himself upright to prove the point. He paused, the thought dawning on him slowly. His fever had spiked, and he only remembered bits and pieces from the last couple days. "What happened to the mission? Was it scrubbed?"

Clint shook his head. "I finished it last night."

A wave of guilt crashed over Phil at the realization that Clint had to finish the mission on his own.

"Sorry, kid," he said with a sigh. "Are—" He was cut off by a short coughing fit and had to take a minute to catch his breath before continuing. "Are we getting evac'ed out of here soon?"

To Phil's surprise, Clint shook his head again. "Fury said to stay put. They finally got the flu epidemic under control at the base and he doesn't want us contaminating it again. He said to stay put until it passes and call Dr. Hendricks if there's any complications."

Phil nodded. It did make sense. The flu was brutal, but as he was in otherwise good health, it wasn't life threatening. And all that really could be done was rest and fluids.

… _he doesn't want_ us _contaminating it again._ The implication of that statement hit Phil sluggishly.

"How are _you_ feeling?" he asked, looking Clint up and down critically.

"Fine," Clint said, a little too quickly.

Phil didn't buy it. Now that he was really looking at him, Clint looked a little flushed.

"C'mere," Phil said, reaching out a hand and beckoning him toward him. "I want to feel your forehead."

"That's an invasion of privacy, Phil," Clint quipped, making no effort to move.

Phil rolled his eyes. It was as good as a confession. "How bad it is?"

"It's not bad," Clint assured him with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just a sore throat and a little bit of a fever. Not as bad as you got it."

The guilt in his gut clawed at his insides. First, he couldn't help Clint finish the mission, and then he got the kid sick. What else could go wrong?

Phil was hit with another small coughing fit, this one pulling at his chest painfully.

He reached for the glass of water again, his eyes shifting to the laptop serving as a television, noticing for the first time that the volume was up louder than he would have expected it. He turned his attention back to Clint, whose gaze hadn't strayed from Phil even for a moment. It was a tell. He was at least partially reading lips to keep up with the conversation.

"How are your ears?" Phil asked with a frown.

A year ago, on a mission gone sideways, Clint's hearing had been damaged beyond repair. It had been a long and trying process to finally get Clint up to running missions again. The Tech department had developed him a set of specialized field hearing aids, basically amplifiers that were built into his comms., along with a few other bells and whistles. It wasn't unusual for him to leave these specialized hearing aids in while they were in a safe-house – as Phil could see they were in now – but if he wasn't feeling well, Phil really would have expected that he would have taken them out by now.

Clint blinked a couple times, carefully contemplating his answer. That told Phil that it was worse than Clint was about to portray it.

"A little sore, but not too bad," Clint finally said in a measured tone.

Phil didn't believe that for a second.

"Can I check them?" Phil asked. "Just to be sure."

Clint shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping. Phil sighed heavily. He didn't have the energy for this. All he wanted to do was lay back down, close his eyes and sleep the rest of this flu off. But Clint needed him, and he would never leave him to deal with this kind of thing alone. He took a moment to gather what energy he could and then, with an effort, he pushed himself to the edge of the bed, drawing Clint's gaze back to him.

"Tell me what's going on," Phil implored gently.

Clint bit his lip, looking a little embarrassed. "I think it's a pretty safe bet I have infections in both ears."

"It's bound to happen if you get sick," Phil reminded him. "If your ear canals swell while your aids are in, it's all but a guarantee." He paused. "If you're not feeling well, why are your aids still in?"

"You were sick," Clint pointed out, as if the logic was obvious. When Phil gave him a blank look, he went on. "It's okay for me to take them out when you're around because you would hear if anyone tried to break into the safe-house. But you were out for the count, Phil. I was on watch duty and I couldn't do that if I couldn't hear. So I left them in."

Phil gave him a pained look. "Clint, you know you're safe in here. SHIELD's safe-houses have some of the most sophisticated security systems known to man."

Clint nodded but didn't look comforted. "You were real sick. It was my job to protect you. I can do that better if I can hear."

"You know you can do that perfectly fine even if you can't hear," Phil pointed out. "You need to trust in your abilities." This had been a constant struggle with Clint adjusting to his new life.

"I'm sorry, Phil," he said quietly.

"You don't need to apologize," Phil assured him gently. He paused before going on carefully, remembering how Clint hadn't reacted when Phil had first woken up in a coughing fit. "Are they helping at all at this point?"

"Some," Clint mumbled. "I can still hear a little with them in if I concentrate. But I won't be able to hear anything if I take them out."

"It's okay, Clint," Phil tried to assure him. "It's okay to let your guard down sometimes. No one will get to you in here, I promise." He was also making a mental note to bring up installing hearing impaired friendly alarms, such as flashing lights, to their safe-house security systems.

Clint gave him a pained look. "They're stuck." His voice cracked at the admission.

"Can I help?" Phil asked.

Clint thought about this for a moment before he finally nodded. As Clint pushed himself up to his feet, Phil coughed again, wincing slightly. He was so ready to be done with this stupid flu. But at least now when it really mattered he was the most coherent that he had been in days. Maybe that's what finally gave Clint the courage to allow him to take out his hearing aids.

Clint perched himself on the cot next to Phil, and up-close Phil could already see how red and irritated the outside of the kid's ears looked. He knew that the inside of his ears would be worse. Moving carefully and slowly, Phil worked the modified comm. unit out of Clint's ear, not missing how the kid grimaced and tensed with each move. Phil winced in sympathy, hating having to cause Clint any pain. After he freed one aid, Clint turned his head so that Phil could repeat the process on the other side. With both devices removed from his ears, the kid couldn't help but look relieved.

"Have you taken any antibiotics?" Phil asked, making sure he had Clint's full attention. He was working on learning sign language, but his head felt too muddled to stumble through what signs he did know. He would have to rely on Clint's lip-reading abilities. Unsurprisingly, Clint shook his head. "Have some food and then take some. Then lie down and try to get some rest. I should be awake for a little bit, so you can stand down. Okay?"

Clint nodded, getting heavily to his feet. Then he turned back, giving Phil a grateful look. "Thanks, Phil," he said quietly.

Phil couldn't help but smile at Clint's retreating back. Clint was terribly self-conscious about his speaking voice when he couldn't hear it, to the point where he would generally avoid speaking altogether if he didn't have his aids in. The fact that he voiced the sentiment to Phil, even if it hadn't been spoken with any amount of confidence, was a huge step forward in Phil's eyes.

It was times like this that reminded Phil that even though Clint had been cleared for field work, his recovery from losing his hearing was an ongoing project. It would take time for him to build back of his confidence and be comfortable with his new way of life. But Phil was determined that he would get him through this, no matter how long it took.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT  
CONDITIONING / BRAINWASHING**


	7. Conditioning Brainwashing

**Author's Note:** Big shout outs to **white collar black wolf** ; **Lieutenant Tree** ; and **LisaG16** for reviewing the last chapter! I very much appreciate the encouragement and support! Reviews keep me motivated people so please don't forget to leave one!

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVEN  
** **CONDITIONING / BRAINWASHING**

"She's got to learn to spar, Phil, just like I did," Clint pointed out patiently.

"She's far deadlier than you ever were," Phil countered.

Clint furrowed his brow, affronted at that. "That's offensive. I was plenty deadly back in the day."

"You broke a fellow recruit's hand when you were still learning how to handle training," Phil pointed out. "She put three ribs into a Burkhart's _lungs_ and he almost _died_. It's a little different, Clint."

"Still, she's got to unlearn that at some point."

"And _you_ have to be her punching bag?"

"I'm the only one who can keep up with her," Clint said with a shrug, as if it were any other Tuesday. "Plus, she's far more likely to listen to me than she is any of the trainers. I'm the one who brought her here, after all."

Phil paused, glaring daggers at him. "Fine," he finally relented. "But I'm supervising."

"Fine," Clint agreed, purposely mimicking Phil's exact tone.

"And I'm bringing a taser."

It was Clint's turn to glare. "No."

"Tranq gun, then."

"No."

Natasha Romanoff's induction into the SHIELD training program was always going to be complicated. There wasn't exactly a precedent for how to handle a deadly assassin who just a year before had been hunting down their own agents. Not to mention, there was little to no information on the Red Room, where Romanoff had been trained since she was young… and the extent of her conditioning was proving not only unexpected, but dangerous.

So tensions were already high regarding her in the base even before the sparring session that had almost turned deadly. And Phil's trust in the former-Russian-assassin-turned-SHIELD-recruit was paper thin even before that incident forced Fury to put her on probation.

Clint and Phil were off base when it had happened, out on another mission. They found out about it almost the moment they set foot back on the base as the fact that Romanoff had almost killed fellow recruit Jacob Burkhart during a sparring season seemed to be the only thing that anyone could talk about. Burkhart had to be rushed to the infirmary and immediately went into emergency surgery in order to save his life. Romanoff was now on probation, restricted from any physical activity that put her in contact with the other recruits. At the moment, Romanoff's future with SHIELD was very much in jeopardy if they couldn't figure out how to train her.

Because Clint had been the one to bring her in, he felt a responsibility to help get her through this. It seemed natural that he would be the one to volunteer to help her figure out how to spar without accidentally killing someone.

It didn't take nearly as much to convince Fury to let Clint try to connect with her. The Director knew that she would be a valuable asset but also knew that if they couldn't interact with her then they couldn't trust her to carry out missions. Clint was the last-ditch effort to get her to play ball.

As Clint and Phil reached the door to the gym where they were supposed to meet Romanoff, Clint paused and turned to his handler, making sure he had his full attention before he spoke.

"You're just here to observe," Clint reminded Phil in a firm undertone. "You're going to let me handle this."

Phil rolled his eyes, but motioned Clint forward in a placating gesture. However, as he pushed open the door and entered the gym, Clint didn't miss the way that Phil walked closer to him than usual, invading the healthy amount of personal space that Clint usually liked to keep around him.

Clint sighed lightly to himself. This was never going to be simple.

Romanoff was already standing on the sparring mat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as her sharp gaze watched the two of them approach. The rest of the gym was empty, something that Clint had made sure of. They needed to take this one step at a time and distractions weren't going to help them at this point.

"I didn't know you taught recruits," Romanoff said, eyeing him suspiciously as he stepped onto the mat.

"I don't usually," Clint admitted with a smirk.

"Then why are you here?"

Clint shrugged one shoulder. "Consider this a remedial sparring lesson."

"I know how to fight," Romanoff pointed out stiffly.

"There's always room for improvement," Clint said. "Not to mention there's always room to learn how not to incapacitate your fellow recruits."

Romanoff glared. "How do you expect me to improve if I can't use full force?"

"How do _you_ expect to practice if you send all your sparring partners to the infirmary?" Clint countered easily.

Romanoff opened her mouth but then snapped it shut again, thinking better of the argument. She sighed in resignation as she dropped her hands to her side. "Fine. Let's get to it then."

Clint sensed Phil still standing almost uncomfortably close – though admittedly his definition of "uncomfortably close" was a significantly wider radius than most people. Still, Phil was far too close for him and Romanoff to have the space they needed for the sparring lesson. Clint waited an extra beat, hoping his handler would take the hint and back off on his own. That would have been too easy though.

He finally turned his head and shot Phil a dry look. "You want to give us some space, Phil?" he said pointedly.

Phil glared at him. Clint met his gaze, telling him without words that he wasn't going to back down. He could understand Phil being protective over him, but this was getting ridiculously over the top in his opinion. Finally, Phil held up his hands in surrender as he backed up. He stepped off the mat and then stopped, planting his feet and silently telling Clint that this was as far as he would go.

Clint sighed. He supposed it was a small victory that he at least left the mat.

Romanoff watched Phil's movements critically and Clint could see her analyzing him as a potential threat. It was an easy look for him to recognize because he knew for a fact that he had worn it for the first couple months he had spent on this base.

"Okay," Clint said briskly, snapping her attention back to him. He angled himself into a defensive position and held up both his hands, palms out. "We're going to start slow. One punch."

Romanoff arched a skeptical eyebrow at him. "One punch?"

"One punch," Clint confirmed calmly. Then he realized he really should clarify before he embarrassingly took a hit to the face. "One punch to one of my hands. Dealer's choice."

"Do you want me to get you some sparring gloves?" Phil spoke up pointedly.

"No, we're fine here, Phil," Clint assured him evenly, sparing him barely a glance before focusing back on Romanoff. "Let's go, Romanoff. Show me what you got."

In retrospect, the challenge probably wasn't his best idea.

She lunged, and the first punch was aimed under his hand. He quickly moved his hand to intercept the blow before it made contact with his ribs, but even as he did, a second punch was flying at his head, forcing him to duck wildly, having not expected it. When the third punch came, he caught it with both hands and used the position to push her back, sending her stumbling.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Clint said, putting out both his hands to ward off another attack, bringing her to a stop as she blinked at him, confused.

Clint glanced over at Phil, seeing that he now had one foot on the mat, but thankfully he hadn't come any farther.

 _Good job, Phil,_ Clint silently praised, knowing that it had taken a lot of restraint from Phil not to come barreling onto the mat to intervene.

Clint took a steadying breath, careful to speak calmly as he focused back on Romanoff. "Okay. What happened to _one punch_?"

"When is anyone ever going to use just one punch in the field?" Romanoff shot back.

"Yeah, but we're not in the field," Clint pointed out.

"Aren't we supposed to be practicing like we are?" she asked, cocking her head and arching her eyebrow.

Clearly, she saw nothing wrong with that logic. It gave Clint a pretty clear indication of what the training techniques were like in the Red Room.

"No," Clint said. "Because in the field we fight to kill. In here, we don't want to kill. We're all on the same side in here."

Romanoff stared blankly at him. Apparently, this was news to her.

"Okay, let's try again," Clint said, resetting his stance and prompting Romanoff to do the same. "Just _one punch_ this time."

The single blow had a shocking amount of power behind it, considering her thin and deceptively fragile looking frame. The force behind it sent Clint's hand into his chest and he naturally stepped backward and grabbed her wrist, directing her momentum past him before she did more than bruise him. He immediately let go of her wrist and stepped away, holding his hands up in surrender to show her that he hadn't meant the action as aggression, but rather a necessity to save himself from a few bruised ribs. Romanoff was coiled to attack but held back at the sight of Clint's passive posture. Small victories.

"See, that's the kind of hit that's gonna break a rookie's ribs," Clint pointed out calmly.

Romanoff rolled her eyes, dropping her hands and relaxing her muscles a fraction, eyeing him warily. "Isn't that how they learn to block?"

"We try and teach them that without breaking bones here," Clint said with a smirk as he slid back into a defensive stance. "Try again with a little less power this time."

Romanoff looked at him skeptically for a moment, as if unsure if he were being serious. Clint waited calmly. Finally, she shifted back into her fighting stance, bringing up both her hands.

Clint braced himself for another hard hit, figuring that it would take a few tries for her to get the right amount of force to use in a sparring match. But instead, her next punch came just a hair above comically slow, tapping Clint's hand with barely any force behind it at all.

It was Clint's turn to roll his eyes.

"Really?" he said sarcastically, arching an eyebrow as he dropped his hands.

"Those are the only two speeds I have," Romanoff shot back irritably, throwing up her hands in frustration.

"Okay, well it's time to add a third to your repertoire, then. Let's try again with a little more power behind it, okay?"

In the next round she accidentally added a second punch to the first. The round after that she kept it to a single punch, but it was laughably light again. Clint calmly took hit after hit, giving her a critique after each blow. Finally, a half hour later, she landed a blow that was hard enough to bruise but not break bone if the full force was taken.

"Yes, just like that," Clint praised with a grin, quickly resetting. "Again."

She got a little overzealous with the next blow again, but Clint had her quickly repeat the process before she lost the muscle memory. She hit that perfect amount of force again. And then again. Carefully, he had her add a second blow to the combination. That was a little more difficult for her to regulate and Clint knew he was going to sport a fair few bruises tomorrow.

But what he saw in her was immensely encouraging. There was cold determination in her eyes as she followed his instructions. She _wanted_ to learn. She _wanted_ to be better. It's what he saw in her when he had his arrow pointed at her heart months ago, the same look that had made him hesitate, made him wonder if her life was really beyond saving.

"Good job, today," Clint said sincerely as they finally ended the session an hour and a half later, both of them properly winded with the effort. "We'll go again the same time tomorrow. Maybe by the end of the week we can have you back in with the rest of the recruits without having to worry about you killing anyone."

Romanoff nodded solemnly, obviously missing the intended humor in the statement. For a moment, she looked like she was about to say something else, but then she turned on her heels and headed for the women's locker room.

"That took _years_ off my life," Phil said in an undertone, glaring at him as he approached.

"Yeah, but I just proved that she is capable of learning," Clint pointed out as he led the way back out of the gym. Despite himself, he smiled. "Whatever conditioning the Red Room imprinted on her is possible to reverse. We just have to take the time to do it."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Yay, I'm excited to finally get to introduce Natasha into this story! However in my timeline, it'll still be a few years until they actually are partnered up for Strike Team Delta, so she will disappear for the next couple prompts, but will return in Chapter 11 for pretty much the remainder of the story! This is my first attempt at writing Natasha, so please let me know what you think! This is only a couple months after she escapes the Red Room, so her character will develop a lot as time goes on!

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
BAG OVER HEAD**


	8. Bag Over Head

**Author's Note:** HUGE shout outs this week! Thank you SO MUCH to **white collar black wolf** ; **JRBarton** ; **Lieutenant Tree** ; **Lesfont25** ; **Lee Anna Kindred** ; and **BrokenKestral** for reviewing the last chapter! There are no words for how much I appreciate your feedback! And extra shout out to **Katie MacAlpine** for marathoning all the chapters last week and leaving reviews for each chapter! I very much enjoyed seeing your progression through the story!

I'm excited for this chapter, it's one of my favorites! Please don't forget to let me know what you think! Here we go!

* * *

 **CHAPTER EIGHT  
** **BAG OVER HEAD**

Phil heard shouting and knew that was his cue. He threw his head back, the crunch of the nose of the man holding him satisfying. Someone grabbed his arm and he kicked blindly in that direction. He connected with something soft and his victim grunted, then retched.

"Guardian, down!"

Phil didn't hesitate at the command from the familiar voice; he dropped down into the sand. The sound of gunfire had him wishing that he could put his hands over his head – or at least _see_ what was happening – but with his hands still tied and the bag still secure over his head, all he could do was huddle on the ground and hope that Clint could handle whatever was happening.

An engine roared. Clint cursed. Another moment passed and suddenly there were hands grabbing at his arms again, and Phil immediately struggled to get away.

"Easy, Phil, it's just me!" came Clint's voice.

Phil stopped fighting as Clint hauled him upright.

"Jesus, Clint, what the hell happened?" Phil demanded as Clint's fingers worked on the ropes tying his hands behind his back.

"Well, I've got good news and I've got bad news," Clint said conversationally. He got Phil's hands free and then started to work on the cloth bag that had been thrown over his head and then taped around his throat. "The good news is that I managed to get free and kill most of the hostiles."

"Believe it or not, I deduced that much," Phil said dryly before he realized what Clint was really saying. "Wait. _Most_ of the hostiles?"

"That would bring us to the bad news," Clint said as he ripped the tape and pulled the bag off.

Phil had to blink a few times in the sudden harsh light. Once he had his full vision back, it still took him another moment to realize that Clint was pointing at something. Phil squinted at the fleeing taillights of the utility vehicle they had been brought out here in.

"That was supposed to be our ride," Clint said flatly, "and it doesn't look like they're too interested in coming back."

Phil stared after the rapidly retreating vehicle for a minute before he shifted his gaze to take in the barren desert that stretched out infinitely in every direction. There was no sign of civilization in sight.

Bad news suddenly seemed like an understatement.

"Shit."

"Yep," Clint agreed solemnly and plopped down in the dirt beside Phil, his arms dangling over his knees.

"Please tell me you have some idea of where the hell we are," Phil said as he squinted around.

"The encampment that they brought us from was that way," Clint said, pointing in the opposite direction that the vehicle had driven off in. He glanced up at the sun and then back down at their surroundings. "I got a glimpse at a map before they put the hoods on us and carted us out here to kill us. It's hard to tell with the sun straight overhead like that, but I think there should be a village that way." He pointed in a different direction. "It's a good distance away, though. I'll be able to tell better when I see which way the sun is moving."

Phil nodded, trusting Clint's assessment; he had an exceptional sense of direction.

"How far?" Phil asked.

Clint squinted slightly as he did some mental calculations, probably reviewing the map in his head. His eidetic memory certainly came in handy at times like these.

"Probably twenty, twenty-five miles," he said, sending Phil an apologetic look for more bad news.

Phil sighed wearily. "Well, we should get moving then. We can adjust direction when the sun moves, but we need to gain some ground before the heat starts getting to us."

Clint nodded. They took the time to check the bodies of the dead hostiles for supplies. They found plenty of guns and knives, but no food or water.

"Wouldn't want to make it too easy on us," Clint murmured sarcastically as they sorted through what gear they wanted to take with them.

Then they started walking.

To Clint's credit, after about an hour and rechecking the direction of the sun, they only needed to do a minor adjustment to their direction. Another hour passed, and the sun was beating down on them more heavily. Phil mourned every drop of sweat dripping down his back and off his brow; it was water he couldn't afford to lose. But they trekked onward, not saying much, and Phil kept an eager eye on the sun that slipped lower and lower towards the horizon.

When night finally fell, the temperature plunging while the moon rose, they continued walking and took only a handful of short breaks in an attempt to make as much progress as they could before the sun came back up.

The sun was just starting to warm the sand under their feet and they were debating digging a shelter in one of the dunes and taking a break when they spotted something on the horizon. They kept moving, spurred on by the idea of encountering something other than the barren dessert. But as it came into view, the sight that they found was not a comforting one. They warily approached the sheer wall of rock that stretched as far as they could see in both directions.

"We could walk along it and see if it's less steep somewhere else," Clint suggested. But he didn't sound like he really believed that was a viable option.

"Not a good idea," Phil said reluctantly. "We'll just be using more energy and there's no guarantee that we'll find a better place to scale this thing."

Really, the only option was to climb.

Clint looked straight up the cliff face, his gaze calculating. This was a side of Clint Barton that not many people got to see. As an assassin, it was sometimes easy to assume that all Clint knew was how to kill people. It was something that Clint didn't waste his time correcting in most people. But what Phil knew when he had recruited him was that he had an amazingly critical mind. He could analyze any given situation and see outcomes no one else could. He was more than a master assassin, he was also an exceptional strategist.

So, as Clint shifted his gaze to Phil, looking at him as nothing more than another factor in the equation, Phil put forth no complaints. If anyone was going to figure out how they would survive this, it was going to be Clint.

"I could climb it myself," Clint finally said, looking back up. "The village shouldn't be much farther. I could climb up and bring back help. Or hopefully at least a rope."

Phil followed Clint's gaze. He had to admit that it was tempting to just let Clint do it himself. It was an intimidating climb even on Phil's best day. And today was certainly not his best day with the fatigue of their trek weighing down on him. Not to mention, Phil had nowhere near Clint's acrobatic ability and with no safety precautions, there was a very real chance that he would make it partway up the cliff and have a real problem.

But as he looked back at Clint, he could see how tired the kid was as well. It wasn't Clint's best day either. And despite his lack of skill, Phil still might be able to be of some help.

"It's probably better if we stay together. There's no telling if the hostiles are waiting for us at the village."

Clint nodded, accepting the logic easily. He looked back at the task in front of him, re-evaluating the situation with Phil as a variable.

"Okay," Clint finally said with a heavy sigh. "I'll go first to scout the easiest path for you. I want you to stay close to me. I want your hands to be as close to my feet as you can manage. I'll anchor before you move, so if you slip you can grab on."

"What, and pull you down with me?" Phil asked skeptically.

"We're in this together, Phil," Clint told him evenly as he turned and met his gaze. "That's the only way we're doing this."

Phil took a steadying breath. "Okay."

Clint nodded. He took a fortifying breath before he stepped up to the wall. He tested a couple different hand holds before hoisting himself up. He was about a foot off the ground when a foot hold gave out and he went stumbling back to the ground, catching himself on unsteady feet.

"Not a good start," Phil observed dryly.

Clint shot a glare over his shoulder, but there was humor in his eyes. "Shut up."

Clint moved a few feet down the wall before trying again, this time finding the wall much steadier. Phil waited until Clint was a few feet up before he went to follow, careful to use the same handholds and footholds that Clint had.

To say the climb was brutal would be an understatement. Clint had to pause several times to scout out solid paths for them to climb. It was painfully slow-going, and as much as Phil was trying to rely on his leg muscles to make the climb, it wasn't long before his arms were spasming painfully with the effort. And really, despite the extra strength in his legs, after hours of wandering in the desert those muscles weren't far behind in showing signs of weakening.

They were about halfway up, pausing longer than before as Clint tested out a few different handholds, when Phil accidentally let his gaze wander down. For a terrifying moment he was overcome with dizziness at the sight of just how far up they were. The ground swayed beneath him, his vision blurred, all his muscles locked up, and a small yelp of panic clawed out of his throat as he felt the rock wall lean away from him. He hugged his precarious holds tighter.

Clint glanced down, hearing his distress.

"Damnit, Phil, what is this, amateur hour?" he called down, trying for humor, but Phil heard the strain in his voice. "For fuck's sake, don't look down."

"Shut up," Phil managed, his voice quavering an embarrassing amount.

"Phil, look at me."

Phil took a deep, steadying breath before he looked up at Clint. Not only was Clint looking down at him, but his agent had the gall to let go of the cliff with one hand and lean out away from the wall in order to better meet his gaze.

"You can do this, Phil. Just keep moving, okay?"

Phil could only silently nod. And then they were climbing again.

Phil was rather impressed with himself. He had no real slip ups, though he did have to steady himself by grabbing Clint's closest ankle from time to time. It was a little challenging because Clint had a longer reach than Phil did, but Clint was careful about making sure there were plenty of handholds and footholds for Phil to utilize and pointing out which ones to avoid.

It wasn't until they reached the top that it almost all fell apart.

Relief coursed through Phil's whole body as he watched Clint finally haul himself up over the edge of the cliff onto solid ground. But when Phil went to follow, he found that the next handhold was just barely out of his reach. He stretched for it, but his fingertips barely brushed the indentation that Clint had used.

"Phil," Clint called.

Phil glanced up to see that Clint now lay on his stomach, one hand reaching down toward Phil while the other braced him on the edge.

Phil pried one hand off the cliff to reach for him, but there was still about an inch between their fingers. He tried to push up with his feet, but his toes slipped, small rocks clattering weakly as they fell. He couldn't help it. He looked down, tracking the pebbles' descent as if they heralded his own, sudden fall. The sight of the ground so far below, which was now so much farther away than before, stole his breath, and panic crashed over him in a suffocating wave. The dizziness hit him again tenfold. He couldn't feel his arms or legs. Was he still holding on? Was he already falling?

"God damnit, Phil!" Clint shouted, snapping Phil's attention back up to him. "We didn't come all this way for you to give up three feet from the fucking finish line! Now get the hell up here!"

For a second, Phil just stared. Clint was still reaching for him, but now he was half-on and half-off the ledge, the weight of his upper body resting on his right hand which was the only thing that kept him from plummeting after those pebbles. Clint's left hand was extended to him as far as he could.

"C'mon, Phil!"

That hand beckoned with the same tone as the voice: desperate and pleading, a far cry from the angry command he had issued just moments before. Phil's shock at his (second) near-miss dissolved as he met Clint's flinty gaze. The desperation was there, but Clint's eyes said, _We are not dying today._

And Clint never lied to Phil.

Angry resolve – anger at himself for almost giving up – surged through Phil, and he launched himself up, letting go with one hand and reaching that last inch for Clint's hand.

Clint grasped his fingers precariously.

But the momentum of the motion caused one of Phil's feet to slip out from under him and for a terrifying moment, Phil felt every inch of empty air below him.

The tenuous grip on his fingers was followed by a firm grasp on his wrist as Clint had lunged with his other hand, the hand that was his anchor. Phil looked up and saw that Clint was now hanging over the ledge with both hands saving Phil from his fall but unable to stop them both from falling if the rock underneath him gave way. For one of the longest moments of Phil's life, he hung in open air and knew that by all laws of physics Clint shouldn't be able to pull Phil up from that position.

He honestly forgot how Clint routinely laughed at the laws of physics.

Clint wiggled backwards, scattering dust and tiny pebbles to rain down on Phil's head. Phil scrabbled with his feet, pushing along the rocky cliff in an attempt to help the ascent. Clint continued to shimmy away from the edge, dragging Phil up inch by torturous inch until Phil finally came within arm's length of the ledge. He reached out with his free hand, hooking it over the edge and helping to pull himself the rest of the way onto solid ground. Just as Phil's waist hooked up over the edge, Clint's bruising grip eased, leaving Phil to scrabble the rest of the way up himself. Phil crawled a few feet from the edge of the cliff before he collapsed on his stomach next to were Clint lay on his back, reveling in the feel of solid ground under his body.

For several minutes, neither of them moved, just gasped desperately for breath. Phil rolled onto his back to better get at the air.

"You okay…Phil?" Clint finally said between labored breaths as he lifted his head to look at him.

"Yeah…" Phil gasped, assuring himself as much as he was Clint. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Okay. Good." He dropped his head back down. There was a long pause. "Can you pop my shoulder back in, then?"

Phil's head snapped up. "What?"

Clint sent him a sheepish smile. "My shoulder may have popped out of socket when I was pulling you up."

"Jesus, Clint, you should have said something sooner!" Phil scolded as he hauled his aching body off the ground.

"I figured we could both use a breather." Clint's face was torn between chagrin, agony, and smugness.

Phil rolled his eyes. Clint's left shoulder was sitting lower than it should. He'd been having problems with that shoulder after a nasty injury last year, and while it was troublesome that it kept popping out of socket, it at least made it easier to pop it back in. Phil carefully maneuvered the joint where he needed it before pulling it out and away from Clint's body and letting it slide back into joint. Clint, to his credit, only grimaced.

Phil sat back on his heels and then finally looked around. There was something in the distance… and he smiled.

"Think that's the village we've been looking for?" he asked, jerking his chin.

Rather than shifting his body to look, Clint simply leaned his head back until he was looking upside-down in the direction Phil indicated.

"Yep," he said tiredly. "Looks like it."

"You need another minute?"

Clint took a deep breath. "No… no, I'm good." With an effort, he pushed himself upright. Then he looked at Phil and smiled. "Let's finish this."

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
** **HELD AT GUNPOINT**


	9. Held at Gunpoint

**Author's Note:** Thank you SO MUCH for all the support that I've gotten for the last couple chapter! I'm so glad so many people are enjoying this story, I've worked really hard on it! Special shout outs to my favorite people ever for taking the time to review the last chapter! **white collar black wolf** ; **Lesfont25** ; **Reagangirl** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **m klindt** ; **Lieutenant Tree** ; and **LisaG16** , all you guys rock! Hope you enjoy this chapter and I can't wait to hear what you think!

* * *

 **CHAPTER NINE  
** **HELD AT GUNPOINT**

He didn't have a clear shot.

Phil and Clint had been tracking Obasi Magoro – a high level, global drug trafficker – through what felt like most of South Africa for almost two months now. The man had a way of slipping through their fingers every chance they nearly got to him. They knew that Magoro was planning to leave the country tonight, so it had all come down to this last-ditch effort. A last-ditch effort that had led them here. Clint was disarmed, one of Magoro's meaty arms wrapped around his neck, a gun in his other hand jammed up against the back of Clint's head. Phil stood about fifteen feet from them, his muscles tense and his gun leveled at the two of them.

Aiming for Magoro's exposed arm was out of the question, it was all but a guarantee of a bullet in the neck for Clint. The man was ducked behind Clint, only a small portion of his head seen over Clint's shoulder. Phil eyed the shot, but the man kept jerking his arm in his agitation, moving Clint's body too unpredictably.

Clint couldn't attempt an escape without getting shot. Phil couldn't attempt the take down without risking shooting Clint. They were at a standstill. And their time for coming up with an exit strategy was just about up.

Magoro was yelling at Phil in Afrikaans and even though Phil didn't speak the language, he got the gist. The man wanted Phil to drop the gun he had leveled at him and surrender, or he was going to kill Clint.

"Hey, let's just take it easy here for a minute," Phil said calmly, attempting to bridge the language barrier with his tone and deescalate the situation if only for a moment so he could think through his options.

But Magoro didn't drop his gun and Phil didn't drop his.

Because they wouldn't get this chance again. It had taken almost a decade to pin this man down long enough to attempt the hit, and if he got the chance to go to ground then there was a good chance they wouldn't find him again. Not to mention, if Phil dropped his gun he figured there was about an eighty percent chance that Magoro would just kill them both and be done with it.

Clint had his hands out in surrender and his eyes were locked on Phil, eerily calm considering Magoro was clearly escalating – talking faster and louder – and in all likelihood was just seconds away from shooting Clint in the head. Phil didn't like what he saw in Clint's gaze. He knew what Clint wanted him to do. He wanted him to take the shot.

 _I'm not you, Clint,_ Phil silently begged him to understand. _I don't have your aim. I take this shot and there's a good to fair chance that you won't walk away from this._

Almost as if he had heard him, Clint tilted his chin down ever so slightly before moving it back. Phil heard him as clearly as if he had spoken out loud.

 _I know. Take the shot._

There were no other options. Phil lined up the shot, aiming for what he could see of Magoro's head just over Clint's shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

Magoro fell… but so did Clint.

"Shit," Phil hissed as he sprinted across the distance. He paused long enough to put a bullet in Magoro's brain just to be sure and then kicked the body away before he dropped to his knees next to Clint. His gaze snagged on the dark stain spreading across the upper right side of Clint's chest. Phil's whole body went numb as he choked out, "Clint?"

"Ouch," Clint groaned, wincing and he sucked in a labored breath. "Stings a bit."

"Hang on, let me see," Phil said, his hands shaking as he checked the entry wound.

The bullet entered just under Clint's collar bone. It was a miracle it missed the bone. Then Phil checked the exit wound, nice and clean before the bullet had ripped into the hostile behind him. Phil wanted to sob in relief.

They were so damn lucky.

Phil eased Clint back and then tore off his jacket and shoved it under Clint to stem the bleeding from the exit wound.

"Shit," Clint yelped as he shifted, trying to get a glimpse of the entry wound.

"Stay still," Phil snapped a little more sharply than he had intended.

"Or what?" Clint took in a breath and smirked painfully as his head fell heavily back to the ground. "You'll shoot me?"

Phil glared at him as he pulled his phone from his pocket. "If I had an extra hand, I'd smack you."

Phil hit the speed dial and then pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder so that his hands were free to bunch up Clint's shirt over the entry wound and apply pressure. He didn't miss the way Clint grimaced at the action, but Phil was just grateful that this wasn't a more dire situation. He requested emergency evac from the SHIELD dispatcher and was told that they'd have air support in about ten minutes.

"How are you feeling?" Phil asked as he hung up the phone.

"Fantastic. Think I'll go for a jog."

Phil huffed a heavy laugh, unable to keep a small smile from quirking his lips.

"Why don't we hold off on that for a few minutes? Emergency evac is on the way. They'll be a little cross if we're not here waiting for them."

"Yeah, I… I guess that's okay," Clint said.

Phil's eyes snapped up to Clint's face as he suddenly sounded… _off_. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow that wasn't there before and his breathing was suddenly more labored.

"Clint?" Phil said warily.

"Somethin'…" Clint paused to heave air into his lungs. "Somethin's wrong…" He looked up at Phil, all signs of strained humor gone and replaced by the beginnings of panic.

"Well, yeah, kid, you've got a hole in your chest," Phil said, doing his best to sound light and unconcerned despite his own panic welling up inside of him. He needed to keep calm for Clint's sake. "Just take it easy, okay? Help is going to be here in just a few minutes and they'll get you all nice and patched up."

Clint swallowed thickly and took in a shallow breath that hitched and hiccupped into another shallow breath and then another. That wasn't good. Phil placed his free hand on the uninjured side of Clint's chest to provide comfort but also to get a rudimentary idea of Clint's heartrate. It wasn't hard to tell that it was elevated.

Phil's eyes darted to the sky, desperately searching for the Quinjet. What the hell was taking so long?

His mind was reeling wildly for explanations, his grasp on his outwardly calm demeanor wavering. Clint had seemed relatively okay for several minutes all things considered. What had changed?

"Phil, someth—somethin's…"

Phil immediately refocused on the frightened gaze looking up at him.

"Hey, easy, just take it easy," Phil assured him, pained by the panic that was escalating in the kid's eyes. "It's going to be okay, you're going to be fine. The med evac will be here any minute, just take nice even breaths okay?"

"Can't… can't br… breathe…"

"Yes, yes, you can," Phil said firmly. He shifted his free hand, grabbing Clint's hand and squeezing it assuredly. "If you can say it, you can do it." Clint gripped Phil's hand like a lifeline. "I'm right here, Clint. I'm going to make damn sure you get through this. Got it?"

Clint gave a small nod, an iron grip around Phil's hand.

Finally, Phil heard the roar of the jet. His eyes went to the sky to confirm that it was the Quinjet finally making its approach before he let out a relieved but shaky sigh. He looked back down at Clint, straining to give him a comforting smile.

"You hear that, kid?" Phil said. "Help is here and they're going to fix you right up. Just hang in there, okay?"

Clint's breaths were getting more terrifyingly shallow by the moment, his gaze beginning to cloud over. The team landed, and several medics came hurrying out with a stretcher. As they loaded Clint up onto the stretcher, Phil kept one hand firmly on the entry wound and the other tightly clasped around Clint's hand. He didn't dare move either hand as the medics loaded Clint up into the Quinjet, murmuring a steady stream of comforting words the whole way.

After they got Clint settled into the Quinjet, everything moved so quick that Phil's overwhelmed mind could barely keep up. An oxygen mask was put over Clint's mouth as his shirt was cut off. Phil's hand was moved off the wound so that they could pack it with bandages, and Phil brought the now free hand to brace the other side of Clint's hand, oblivious to the blood.

"Don't you dare give up," Phil said quietly, leaning in closer. "Don't you dare do this to me, I can't live with this, Clint, I just can't."

Clint looked up at him with heavily lidded eyes, weakly squeezing Phil's hand. Phil felt the breath catch in his chest at the gesture. Now that Clint's life was no longer in his hands, the situation finally crashed down over him full force.

He had shot Clint.

"He's got a collapsed lung, we need to drain his chest cavity."

The words from the medic came to Phil from a great distance, filtering in slowly through the fog in his brain. He watched blankly as the medic inserted a syringe into Clint's chest and pulled back on the plunger, the barrel filling up with blood. The medic methodically repeated the process three times.

"It's only a temporary fix, he's still bleeding into his chest cavity. Have the base prep the O.R., he's going to need a chest tube and immediate emergency surgery."

The air in Phil's lungs felt thin. How had this happened? How had they ended up here?

It was a small miracle that they weren't far from the nearest SHIELD base.

The surgical team was ready for them when they landed, flooding the jet as soon as the ramp was lowered. Phil kept a tight hold of Clint's hand as they moved him off the jet, the medical team getting his vitals as they hurried along the hallways to the infirmary. Phil was vaguely aware that the numbers being rattled off were worse than the ones that the team on the jet had recorded.

"Agent Coulson, you can't go any farther."

It took a beat longer than it should have for Phil to realize they had stopped. He looked around, realizing they were outside the double doors leading to the operating room. He couldn't follow Clint back there.

Phil took a steadying breath as he focused back on Clint, who looked up at him through heavily lidded eyes, conscious only through sheer force of will. His breath periodically made a small section of the oxygen mask fog up, an assurance that he was getting enough air, at least for the moment.

"I'll wait right here for you," Phil assured him softly. "They'll patch you up and you'll be good as new. I promise, kid."

Phil pried his hands away from Clint and took a step back as the surgical team wheeled him through those doors and out of sight.

Phil stood outside those doors for a long time, unmoving. At some point he gave way to pacing. Four different nurses offered him a seat before he finally felt like his legs would no longer hold him. He moved a chair so that he would still have full view of the operating room doors, perched on the edge of the seat as he settled in to wait.

It was hours before a doctor finally came out to speak with him. Phil almost hyperventilated at the sight, seeing the fact that he wasn't wheeling Clint out with him as a sign of bad news. But the doctor quickly assured him that things went as well as they could have hoped for and with time they expected Clint to make a full recovery. Clint had been moved to ICU for observation and recovery. After they got him settled, the doctor promised to allow Phil back to sit with him.

The relief washed over Phil in a dizzying wave that threatened to sweep his feet out from underneath him.

Later, it felt surreal sitting next to Clint's hospital bed. Oxygen mask, heart monitor, chest tube, heavily bandaged chest… Phil had done this. This was his fault.

The first sign of Clint waking several hours later was the way that his hand tightened around Phil's. Phil had been holding his hand for hours, wanting to provide tactile comfort when Clint woke up. Clint's hearing aids had been taken out before surgery, so Phil couldn't provide any verbal comfort… and that reminder twisted at his heart.

Why couldn't he do right by this kid? Why did he have to keep messing up so bad?

"It's not your fault, Phil."

It was murmured so quietly that for a moment Phil was convinced that he had imagined it. He looked down at the kid, searching for signs of consciousness. Clint's eyes were still closed but his hand had a firm grip around Phil's. The kid was definitely awake. He also obviously knew it was Phil without looking and the fact that he wasn't opening his eyes meant that he wasn't interested in anything Phil had to say.

"You had to do it. Guy woulda killed botha us if you'd dropped that gun."

Phil couldn't help the small smile that graced his lips as he gave Clint's hand a light squeeze of appreciation. It was just like Clint to be only half-conscious, recovering from a bullet wound and a collapsed lung, and still knowing exactly what Phil needed to hear.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
PANIC ATTACK**


	10. Panic Attack

**Author's Note:** Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay today, it ended up being a busy day! Thank you so much to white collar black wolf; Lesfont25; m klindt; and LisaG16 for taking the time to review that last chapter! I very much appreciate all the support from you guys! Hope you enjoy this next chapter, we get a little intense here!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TEN  
** **PANIC ATTACK**

"Okay, I'm really gonna need you to stop being so damn dramatic, Phil," Clint griped as he pushed open the door to the safehouse, shifting to better take on Phil's weight as he practically dragged his handler across the threshold.

"Now you know… how I feel… when you do it," Phil grunted through labored breaths.

Clint was about to quip back, but at that moment Phil's knees finally decided to give out. The sudden shift almost sent Clint toppling, but he managed to catch himself at the last second. He carefully lowered Phil to lie on the floor just a few feet from the door of the safehouse.

Then he was moving again.

As painful as it was, Clint knew he had to secure the safehouse first. He made sure the door was firmly closed and checked and then double checked the locks. He turned and hurried across the safehouse to where they kept the first aid supplies, grabbing fistfuls of gauze and tape before running back to where Phil lay. As Clint began to kneel next to Phil, one foot slipped out from under him in the blood that was pooling on the floor, causing his knee to slam painfully into the floor.

Phil's blood.

Clint didn't stop long enough to let that thought overwhelm him. He layered gauze heavily in to the gash in Phil's side, pushing down firmly and ignoring the groan of pain crawled its way up from Phil's throat and deliberately not thinking about how the noise really should have been louder.

"Easy, Phil," Clint said, his voice shaking slightly as his hands worked. "Just gonna get you put back together here, okay?"

He didn't comprehend that Phil didn't answer.

After packing an excessive amount of gauze to stem the bleeding, he taped it into place using a generous amount of medical tape. Then, for good measure, he yanked his belt off and wound it around behind Phil, cinching it tightly over top of the wound.

"Phil? Phil, can you hear me?" Clint practically pleaded as he shifted his attention to Phil's startlingly pale face.

Phil didn't move, his eyes half open but unaware of what was going on around him. Clint swallowed thickly as he placed a hand on his handler's chest. He could feel Phil's heart beating, though it was beating significantly faster than it should have been. That was concerning, but one thought rang clearly in Clint's mind. Phil was still alive.

Phil was still alive.

Clint kept one hand firmly on Phil's chest as he fumbled his phone out of his pocket and navigated through the screens, using the physical contact with Phil as a lifeline to ground himself. He took a deep breath as he lifted the phone to his ear.

" _Barton. What's Phil's status?_ "

Dr. Jaqueline Hendricks answered the phone on the first ring and was immediately all business. Fury must have already filled her in on the situation after Clint had called in for emergency evac when they were still making their way to the safehouse.

"Phil's bleeding." Clint could hear how pathetic he sounded. He knew that wasn't helpful information, but somehow his brain just couldn't get passed that fact. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the blood-stained floor. "He's… he's bleeding a lot, it's all over the floor."

" _Clint,_ " Hendricks said sharply but evenly. Clint couldn't help but flinch at the tone. " _Close your eyes._ " He did as he was told. " _Take a deep breath._ " He did. " _Take another one._ " He did. " _Okay. Now tell me what we're dealing with here._ "

Clint opened his eyes, feeling steadier than he had a minute ago.

"Knife wound to his left side," Clint reported tightly. "Solid slice, probably went in about half an inch and stretches about six inches. He's been bleeding significantly for probably fifteen minutes now. He's easily lost two or three pints, might be approaching four."

" _Pulse?"_ Hendrick's prompted.

Clint checked. "Weak and thready." His voice was flat and emotionless, desperately trying not to think about what that meant.

" _How's his breathing?_ "

Clint leaned in closer. "Fast and shallow. Hitches every couple breaths."

" _Shit,_ " Hendricks murmured tensely. " _Did you pack the wound?_ "

"Yes," Clint confirmed, nodding even though she couldn't see him.

" _Pressure?_ "

"Wrapped it with a belt."

" _Good, okay,_ " Hendricks said, but there was something off in her tone. " _Hopefully nothing major was damaged and that will slow his bleeding. Here's the problem, Barton… your emergency evac is still an hour out and it's unlikely that Phil will last that long without a blood transfusion._ "

Clint blinked, and when he spoke again his voice sounded strangely detached. "So… what do we do?"

" _You are damn lucky, Barton,"_ Hendricks said. " _Your blood type is O negative, a universal donor. You can do a direct donation to keep him going until the evac gets there. I need you to get some IV tubing from your med kit, two needles and medical tape. Can you get those things?_ "

"Yeah, yeah, I can do that," Clint said.

He put the phone on speaker as he hurried back across the room to gather the supplies, feeling a burst of hope flooding through him. Maybe he could still fix this.

" _You're also going to need a stool or chair or something,_ " Hendricks went on. " _You need to be above Phil for this to work._ "

Hendricks quickly walked Clint through attaching an IV catheter to one end of the tubing and then cutting the other end that was normally meant to attached to the IV bag. Then he carefully taped another IV catheter to the other end, making sure it was sealed. Clint started the IV on himself – he barely felt the needle as he pushed it into his own skin – and let the tube fill with his blood before carefully starting the other end of the IV on Phil. Then Clint heavily pushed himself up off the floor and perched on the edge of the chair he had pulled over.

" _The blood needs to flow down the tube,_ " Hendricks reminded him. " _So, make sure you are sitting above him the whole time. You can let it run until you get dizzy, no more than thirty minutes. As long as his bleeding slows and starts to clot, it should hold him until the evac gets there._ "

"What else, what else can I do?" Clint asked, desperate to do everything he could.

" _That's it, Barton,_ " Hendricks told him sympathetically. " _For now, this is all you can do."_ Clint blinked, uncomprehending. _"I'm sorry, kid. Keep checking his vitals and call me if anything changes, okay?"_

"Yeah, okay," Clint said quietly, staring down at Phil's unmoving form.

" _Hang in there, Barton._ "

Clint was barely aware that the call disconnected.

Everything had been moving so fast up until that moment. The fight, Phil going down, Clint finishing off the rest of the hostiles. Then the call to Fury, the frantic trip back to the safehouse, Clint desperately working through packing the wound and starting the blood transfusion. But now, with nothing else he could do, everything came to a screeching halt and the realty of the situation finally crashed down over him like a bucket of ice water, stealing his breath away.

Phil could die.

Clint stared vacantly at the tubing filled with his blood, working his right hand open and closed to help the flow. He sat in silence, barely aware of the passage of time around him. He took one unsteady breath and then another, decidedly ignoring the sharp pain in his chest with each breath.

"Don't… don't do this to me, Phil," Clint found himself saying quietly. He scrubbed his free hand over his mouth. "You can't… you can't fucking do this to me. Okay?"

Phil didn't move, didn't so much as twitch. Clint swallowed and then winced as he suddenly found there was suddenly a painful lump in his throat. He rubbed the palm of his free hand up against his pant leg, trying to ignore the tremble in his hand and the pins and needles feeling in his fingers.

 _What if Phil dies?_ The thought took a steel-gripped hold of him, strangling him as he suddenly gasped in a labored breath. _Phil could die. I could be left alone. Phil is dying because I can't save him._ _After everything he's done for me, this is how it ends. I should have been better, I should have saved him, it should be me instead of him bleeding on the floor of this safehouse. Phil is dying._

With that thought, Clint's emotions spiraled wildly out of his control. No matter how hard he tried to reign them in he couldn't think of anything other than Phil's death. He could vividly picture Phil's funeral – simple flowers, a somber urn containing Phil's ashes, quietly melancholy music – and it was like a clamp suddenly slammed over his stomach. He leaned forward, putting a hand that had broken out into full tremors to his head. He wheezed in one breath after another, forcibly pulling the air past the lump in his throat and into his lungs.

Clint honestly wasn't sure how long he existed in that state before he noticed Phil stirring. His heart leapt up into his throat, choking him for a moment at the sight of Phil's shifting his head. Or was that just the strange floating quality that his vision had taken on at some point?

"Ph-Phil?" Clint stuttered hoarsely.

Forgetting that he was supposed to stay on the chair, Clint slid off the seat, his kneecaps hitting the floor heavily as he kneeled next to Phil's still form. Clint heaved in an unsteady breath as he reached a shaking hand to brace on Phil's shoulder, desperately willing some of his own lifeforce into his handler's still form.

"You don't get to do this, Phil," Clint murmured, his words slurring. "You don't get to leave me here like this."

A few minutes later when the door to the safehouse opened, Clint barely reacted. He resisted weakly as someone pulled him away from Phil, but suddenly the room was spinning around him, the lights overhead blurring as his body pulled him down toward the floor. The floor filled his nostrils with a sharp, metallic scent of dried blood. And that was the last thing that he remembered.

* * *

Consciousness came back to Clint slowly. He grimaced at the smell of antiseptic. Carefully, he blinked his eyes open but immediately squeezed them shut again as the bright, fluorescent lights burned them.

"I ought to beat your ass."

Clint couldn't help but smile at that familiar, annoyed voice. He took a moment to realize that he could actually hear the voice. His hearing aids were still in, which meant that he hadn't gone into surgery or had any x-rays or MRIs where they would have had to remove the devices. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that considering those were usually a given when he was admitted to the infirmary.

He took a steadying breath before he pried his eyes open again, blinking until the room came into focus. He took everything in slowly. Sterile, white walls loomed over him. He was lying in a bed, IV attached to his arm. He turned his head, taking in Phil laying in a hospital bed on the other side of the room, the top of his bed tilted up and his head turned toward Clint, looking at him critically.

"You okay, Phil?" Clint asked, his voice dragging up out of his throat.

"Yeah, kid, I'm expected to make a full recovery," Phil assured him.

"Good," Clint sighed in relief. He paused, glancing up at his own IV quizzically. "So… what the hell happened to _me_?"

Before Phil had a chance to answer, the door to the recovery room swung open.

"Oh good, you're up," Dr. Hendricks said as she briskly strode into the room. "Barton, do you have any recollection of a conversation we had? I said something about transfusing blood for no more than thirty minutes?"

Clint eyed her annoyed expression. "I'm thinking it might have been a little longer than thirty minutes?"

"Try an hour!" Hendricks snapped. "You had transfused over three pints, kid. You're damn lucky the team got there when they did. You were about ten minutes away from being in more trouble than Phil!"

"My bad," Clint said with a tiredly sheepish smirk.

Hendricks rolled her eyes as she checked his vitals. Satisfied, she turned on her heels and left the room, still muttering about why she bothers to give instructions if no one's going to listen.

"It was a stupid risk to take, kid," Phil said with a frown.

"No," Clint said, taking in the sight of Phil alive and well as he relaxed into the infirmary bed. "It really wasn't."

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
OUTNUMBERED**

 **(Natasha finally returns in the next chapter!)**


	11. Outnumbered

**Author's Note: **Quick shout outs because I got about five minutes to get this thing posted during this chaotic weekend, haha! Thank you SO MUCH for taking time to review! Lesfont25; white collar black wolf; TheRedScreech; LisaG16; Katie MacAlpine; BrokenKestral and Lieutenant Tree all reviewed the last chapter and you guys are my FAVORITES! Thank you!

* * *

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN  
** **OUTNUMBERED**

"What, are you taking a nap?"

Natasha blinked her eyes open at the sound of the familiar voice, convinced for a moment that she was hallucinating. The cold, bare cell floated around her uncomfortably for a moment and she had to blink several times before it finally righted itself. But as the room came into focus, she could have sworn she saw Clint Barton forcibly levering open the door to her cell.

"What the… what the hell are you doing here?" she stuttered, her voice hoarse from disuse.

"I was in the neighborhood," Clint said with a shrug as he quickly crossed the cell, his eyes going to the shackles that locked Natasha's wrists to the wall of the cell. "You alright?"

"SHIELD doesn't do rescue missions," Natasha felt the need to point out as Clint went about picking the lock to her shackles. With an effort, she straightened her legs, which had given out days ago and left her to hang from the shackles that pinned her wrists to the wall of the cell.

"You sound like Fury," Clint muttered to himself. As he freed her wrists, she stumbled away from the stone wall and he reached out to steady her. "Are you alright?"

Natasha took a steadying breath before she managed to right herself.

"Just a little dehydrated," she assured him, slightly breathless. "I can make it."

"Good, because I'm not carrying you," Clint quipped. He held out a handgun for her to take.

"Not much of a white knight, are you?" Natasha said sarcastically with a smirk. She took the gun, automatically checking the ammo and flicking off the safety.

Clint returned the smirk. "Never claimed to be. Now let's get the hell out of here."

Footsteps suddenly echoed down the corridor outside of the cell, followed by rough commands shouted in German.

"Are there still hostiles in the area?" Natasha asked.

"Maybe a few," Clint sighed wearily.

Looking back, Natasha would realize that she should have seen the signs sooner. But after a week of captivity, she was admittedly not as observant as she normally was. Clint's bow was stowed away and his quiver was empty. There was a fatigued set to his shoulders as he raised his gun. He hesitated more than usual when he rounded corners as he led the way through the expansive compound, taking out hostile after hostile. Just when they made their way through one wave of hostiles and it seemed there could be no more, they would come around a corner to find another wave.

"How many of these assholes are there?" Clint demanded as he pressed himself up against a wall just before another corridor.

Natasha arched a curious eyebrow as she saw that he was leaning heavily against the wall. Was he… was he out of breath? She didn't have time to contemplate that before there was a sudden movement in her peripheral vision and she whipped around, taking out the hostile coming around the corner with two well placed shots before Clint had moved.

"Who's rescuing who here?" she deadpanned, only half joking.

Clint huffed a laugh. "It's debatable," he admitted. His voice sounded thin.

There was definitely something going on that Natasha wasn't privy to. But they didn't have time to stand around and discuss it. Natasha's eyes darted around the area; it was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

"You need another minute?" she asked without looking at him.

"I'm good," he said. His tone was unsteady, but when she looked back at him, she saw that his eyes were determined as he pushed himself off the wall. "Let's go. We're almost there."

"There's an extraction plan?" Natasha asked.

"I sure hope so," Clint said with a tired smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Comforting," Natasha said flatly.

She fell in behind him, shifting her focus to protecting their six. They continued their trek through the compound and Natasha took notice of the bodies with arrows protruding out of them as they moved. As they came across more and more bodies, she knew they had to be getting close to Clint's original entry point.

They finally made it to a stairwell and began climbing. As they reached the top, Clint muscled open a heavy door and led them out onto the roof. Natasha rushed passed him and he slammed the door shut behind them and then slid a piece of scrap metal from the ground through the handle, jamming the door to slow down any hostiles that were still pursuing them.

For a moment, Natasha couldn't help but pause and breathe in fresh air for the first time in a week.

"Let's go, Nat!" Clint's strained voice brought Natasha's attention back to the situation at hand.

A Quinjet hovered over the compound, dropping a rope down to them on the roof. Clint grabbed the rope to steady it before quickly motioning Natasha over. She didn't waste any time, throwing the safety on her gun before shoving it in the back of her pants as she hurried over to him. She took a fortifying breath, steeling herself for the task before she reached up and used what felt like the last of her strength to pull herself up and then immediately pinched the rope between her knees and ankles in an attempt to take the strain off her upper body. Then, she began to climb. Each time she moved her hands, they would slide painfully on the rope before she could secure a grip to shift the rest of her body up. Her muscles were aching before she even started, and now they were screaming at her.

Natasha was in exceptional shape and on a normal day climbing that rope would have taken the same amount of effort as walking down the street. But after a week of captivity, she found that she was struggling to find the strength to make the climb.

She was about halfway up the rope when she heard the first gunshot. The second gunshot buzzed uncomfortably close. Suddenly her screaming muscles and aching bones didn't matter. Clint was in the line of fire because of her. Determination blazed anew within her as she forced her muscles to pick up the pace, ignoring the bullets now whizzing past her.

"Romanoff!"

Natasha looked up to see Clint's handler, Phil Coulson, leaning out the door of the Quinjet and reaching down to her, his hand just barely out of reach. Gathering what little strength she could, she braced her knees higher up on the rope and used the leverage to boost herself up as she threw out a hand, relief flowing through her as Phil's hand clamped around her wrist. Phil flexed and grunted with effort as he hauled her up into the jet. She hit the comforting metal floor of the Quinjet hard, bracing herself on her knees and elbows as she struggled to catch her breath.

After a minute she determinedly pushed herself up and turned, fully expecting to see Clint already in the jet. But strangely, Clint hadn't appeared yet and Phil was still leaning out the door, looking intensely down toward the ground.

And gunshots could still be heard outside the jet.

"Romanoff!" Phil called over the roar of the engine, sending a desperate look over his shoulder. "I need your help!"

Natasha immediately scrambled over to him. She craned herself over the edge of the jet, surprised to find that Clint was still halfway down the rope, struggling to make headway.

Clint? Struggling to climb? The image did not compute. She had once witnessed Clint climbing a rope up to a Quinjet just using his legs and one hand, while he had a gun in the other hand and was firing down at hostiles with deadly accuracy as he moved.

Something was definitely wrong here.

"We need to pull the rope up," Phil said tersely, reaching down and taking hold of the rope.

Natasha didn't waste any time questioning the order. Once again, she reached down deep within herself, forcing her exhausted body to scrape together any last shreds of strength she had left. Working in tandem, she and Phil pulled the rope up foot by agonizing foot.

Finally, Phil reached down and hooked his hand under one of Clint's arms and Natasha reached down to grab his other. Working together, they finally hauled Clint up into the jet, where he immediately collapsed onto the metal floor, gasping for desperately breath.

Phil slammed his hand on the door control, closing the door before he was running to the cockpit, intent on piloting them the hell out of there.

"You okay?" Natasha asked, searching Clint for injuries as the jet shuttered out of auto-pilot mode.

"Yeah, just a graze," Clint grunted. He pushed himself up with one hand, twisting as he reached his other hand toward his leg.

Natasha followed the gesture, grimacing at the amount of blood she saw soaking through his pants at his calf.

"Looks like more than just a graze, Clint," she snapped. She reached down and folded the fabric of his pant leg over the bloodstain in order to put pressure on the wound. Clint winced and groaned lowly as he lay back on the floor of the jet.

"How bad is it?" Phil called, glancing back at them as he carefully piloted the jet.

Natasha shifted the torn fabric so that she could check the wound, relieved when she saw that it was a relatively shallow crease.

"He'll live," she announced before turning her focus back to Clint. "What the hell happened? Why couldn't you get up the damn rope?"

"Just a little tired," Clint sighed as he blinked heavily.

"He's been fighting through that compound for over three hours," Phil called back to them. "Pretty sure we've finally found his physical limit."

Natasha's eyes widened. "What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded, even as Clint's eyes were fluttering shut, the exhaustion getting the better of him now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

"Shut up, you woulda done the same for me," Clint mumbled with a weak indignance. "I'm just gonna rest my eyes here for a minute."

Natasha sighed but she couldn't help the small smile that pulled at the corners of her lips.

"You're an idiot." She paused and then went on quietly but sincerely. "Thank you."

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
BANDAGING WOUNDS**


	12. Bandaging Wounds

**Author's Note:** Thank you SO MUCH to **white collar black wolf** ; **YoungPrinceLou** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **Lesfont25** ; **Lieutenant Tree** ; **BrokenKestral** ; **LisaG16** ; and **Guest** for taking the time to reviewing the last chapter! Possibly my most reviewed chapter yet! I'm so glad that you guys are enjoying this story so much!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWELVE  
** **BANDAGING WOUNDS**

"I'm unarmed," Phil announced loud and clear into the night, holding his hands out to either side of his body, the briefcase in his left-hand swaying lightly.

He squinted into the spotlight that had been turned on him a moment before, doing another headcount. Four shadowed men were spread out in a rough semicircle about fifteen feet in front of him, each with an automatic rifle pointed at him. Ivan Chekov, leader of this merry little band, stood easily in the a step in front of the formation. About ten feet behind them was the covered military truck that Phil knew concealed at least another three guys.

"Do you mind if we verify that?" Chekov asked, his Russian accent thick but his English clear and precise.

"Go right ahead," Phil invited calmly, never breaking eye contact with the man.

One of the henchmen lowered his gun as he walked forward, the other three keeping their guns trained steadily on Phil. Phil didn't bat an eye as he lifted his arms to accommodate the rough pat down. He was careful to keep a tight grip on the briefcase though. When the man who patted him down made a grab for the case, Phil was expecting it, already jerking the briefcase out of the man's reach as he took a step away.

"I want proof of life," Phil demanded as he focused back on Chekov.

Chekov smirked. "Do you not trust me, friend?"

Phil held the man's gaze and simply waited.

It was a solid minute of the stalemate before Chekov finally raised his hand and gave one crisp snap of his fingers. Phil's gaze immediately zeroed in on the movement in the truck behind the group. The flap that covered the back of the truck was flung back. Several shadowed figures moved around the cargo hold. Two figures held a third between them as they dragged him to the edge of the truck and propped him up with his legs hanging limply over the edge. A fourth figure stood behind the group, the silhouette of a gun pointed at the back of the head of the middle figure.

The spotlight shifted and Phil had to blink a few times as his eyes adjusted to shift in lighting. The middle figure had a bag over his head, but a moment later the guy to the figure's right reached over and ripped the bag away in one swift motion.

Clint's head rolled limply on his shoulders, his eyes half open. Blood stained the side of his face and was matted into his hair. His arms were pulled tightly behind him and he swayed unsteadily where he sat. If there weren't a rough hand gripping each of his shoulders, Phil suspected Clint wouldn't be able to hold himself upright.

Phil's blood ran cold at the sight.

"See?" Chekov said with an easy smile. "The boy is right as rain." He paused. "I have to say, I am disappointed that Natalia did not come for him herself." Phil felt his hackles rising at hearing the name that Natasha had been called while she was in the Red Room. He kept his features impassive though, not wanting to appear rattled. "I thought this boy might actually mean something to her."

Phil dragged his gaze away from Clint and focused on Chekov. Oh, how he wished he had a gun on him.

"She was busy," Phil said stiffly. "I have your money. Now let him go."

"Hand over the money first," Chekov countered. "Then we will release the boy."

The looks of surprise and tensing of muscles was something that Phil wished he could have documented as he briskly strode forward. He reached the group in front of him and wordlessly held out the briefcase to Chekov. It was a small feeling of victory when Chekov hesitated, obviously thrown off by Phil's sudden compliance.

After a long, charged moment, Chekov finally reached out and took the briefcase. He braced the case on his forearm and popped it open, checking the contents. Every dollar was there, Phil knew that. He wasn't particularly thrilled that Fury had ordered them to play ball with these thugs, but the Director didn't want to bring too much attention to this exchange. Clint's true identity was still unknown to these men, and a dramatic rescue would bring too much scrutiny around the incident. Fury had instructed them in no uncertain terms to pay the demanded ransom and play this straight for as long as Chekov and his goons did.

Phil kept reminding himself that as long as they got Clint back alive, this would be a win.

"I am impressed with your cooperation, friend," Chekov said as he snapped the case shut and handed it to one of his men. He smiled. "Perhaps it is best that Natalia sent her errand boy to do this exchange. In my experience, she is usually not so agreeable."

"You have your money, now let him go," Phil said lowly.

Chekov eyed Phil carefully, clearly sizing him up. He barely came up to Chekov's shoulder, but Phil stood ramrod straight with his shoulders squared, his gaze cold and dangerous as he locked it on Chekov. Phil was playing this straight for as long as Chekov did. But if Chekov chose to go off book, Phil was prepared to do what was necessary in order to bring Clint home.

"I am a man of my word, friend," Chekov finally said. "We will leave the boy."

He turned his back to Phil and strode back to the truck as if he didn't have a care in the world. The men with the guns backed away, keeping their weapons leveled at Phil. Phil watched their movements, his heart pounding though he kept his outward features calm.

Finally, as the men jumped into the truck, Clint was shoved out of the back of the vehicle, hitting the ground hard and immediately going limp. Phil immediately rushed forward, not sparing a passing glance to the truck that now raced away from them.

"Clint?" Phil hissed desperately as he dropped to his knees next to him.

But before he could really assess Clint's condition, the unmistakable sound of gunfire tore through the night. Phil's eyes snapped up as he realized with a sinking stomach that the red taillights of the truck had come to a sudden stop about fifty yards away from them.

Phil couldn't see past the lights in the darkness, but he could hear shouting and more gunfire. He quickly scrambled to put himself between Clint and the perceived danger. He pulled a knife from his boot – the only weapon that he could conceal and still pass the predicted pat down – and held it defensively in front of him as he frantically tried to assess the situation.

As quickly as the commotion started, just a minute later it came to a disturbingly abrupt end.

Phil's heart leapt up into his throat and all his muscles tensed as a single figure made its way toward them from the shadows. After everything he had been through in the last forty-eight hours, he wasn't about to go down quietly, especially with him the only thing between Clint and this potential new threat.

"Easy, Phil," a soft, feminine voice floated out to him. "It's just me."

Phil let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

"Jesus, Natasha," he sighed. "What the hell are you doing here? You were supposed to be out of range unless I signaled for backup."

"They didn't deserve to walk away from this," Natasha said lowly.

Phil's gaze drifted past Natasha into the deathly still night behind her, the red taillights of the truck still shining stoically back at them. It took a moment before what happened finally clicked into place in Phil's overwhelmed brain.

"Are they…?"

"Dead," Natasha said sharply before he could finish his question. "Every single goddamn one of them." She came to a stop several steps away from him and when she spoke again, her tone had softened marginally. "How is he?"

Phil turned back to Clint and used the knife to cut the duct tape that was wrapped around Clint's wrists, pinning them behind his back. He carefully rolled Clint onto his back and started to catalogue injuries.

"You know what Fury's orders were," Phil reminded her as he worked. "We weren't supposed to escalate this if we didn't have to. We didn't want to bring down unwanted attention from the rest of their operation just yet."

"How is he?" Natasha repeated, low dread just barely detectable in her quiet voice. Her feet remained planted in place, unable to approach Clint just yet.

Phil swallowed thickly as he finally took in the extend of Clint's condition.

"He's in bad shape," he finally admitted quietly.

Phil was used to bandaging up Clint. Sliced fingers from his bow string, broken bones, gushing head wounds, Phil had seen the works from this reckless kid. If Phil had a dollar for every stitch he had to put into Clint's skin over the years, he'd be a rich man.

But this… Phil didn't even know where to begin.

Clint's head lolled on the ground as he hovered somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. There was a deep gash on his forehead right up against his hairline that was still bleeding sluggishly. Dark, angry bruises circled his neck, the sight turning Phil's stomach. As he continued his assessment, the odd angle of Clint's right wrist caught his attention. It was broken. This prompted Phil to feel for other broken bones, and Clint's right collar bone shifted unnaturally under another deep laceration, earning a low groan from the half-conscious kid. The shirt that Clint was wearing was torn to shreds, and underneath it so was he. It looked as if they had taken a sharp whip to him, leaving his torso a bloodied mess.

What really ate at Phil was the burning question… _what was the point?_

Chekov had known Natasha from her days in the Red Room. He had recognized her when she had been out with Clint doing recon on a target for a mission completely unrelated to the organization that Chekov was part of. Chekov had apparently assumed a connection between Clint and Natasha and as revenge for her desertion he kidnapped Clint two days ago and demanded a ransom from Natasha.

All that made sense, but what was the point of the torture? They had no means to connect Clint to SHIELD. There was no reason to try and get any information out of him. Had they done this just for their own sick enjoyment?

And with that thought, Phil suddenly wasn't so angry with Natasha for taking matters into her own hands and ending them. Perhaps that would be something he left out of his report altogether.

"C'mon," Phil finally said. "Help me get him to the car."

It was a delicate process to move him, especially with the broken collar bone. Phil ideally would have liked to splint it before they moved him, but he didn't know how long it would be before Chekov and his men would be missed.

"Ph'l?" Clint mumbled as he hung between Phil and Natasha as they carefully moved him toward the waiting car.

Phil felt his stomach twist painfully. He gave Clint's uninjured arm two firm squeezes to confirm his presence. He already knew that the kid's comms. were gone, which meant so were his hearing aids. It was times like this when it was the most painful that he couldn't give Clint any kind of verbal comfort or assurance.

A low hum of pain crawled up Clint's raw throat as they loaded him into the back of the car.

"You're going to need to stabilize the broken bones while I drive," Phil told Natasha as they laid Clint out carefully across the backseat.

"You would be better at that," Natasha said. "I can drive."

Phil glanced over at Natasha, noting the way that she wasn't really looking at either him or Clint. He wasn't about to waste time trying to decipher the look though. Instead, he simply handed over the keys and then climbed into the backseat with Clint.

The drive back to the safehouse was consumed by a tense silence. By the time they reached the safehouse and went to move Clint out of the car, he had drifted back toward unconsciousness, though his eyelids would flutter and low noises vibrated from the back of this throat every so often. It made getting him into the safehouse marginally less stressful, but at the same time it wasn't a good sign for Clint's overall condition.

As they finally laid Clint out on his cot, Phil finally felt a fraction of the tension releasing from his shoulders. It was always a relief when he could finally tend to Clint's injuries and start piecing the kid back together. They still had a few hours until the med evac that Phil had called would arrive. And taking care of the basic first aid was something that Phil found comfort in, something that made him feel like he could fix this mess that they had gotten themselves into.

Phil retrieved the supplies he needed from the advanced med pack that they made a habit of traveling with. He took the time to pull on a pair of latex gloves, just in case by some miracle Clint had managed to not get an infection yet. Then he took a steadying breath. He needed to take this one injury at a time.

The head wound was his first concern. As he carefully cleaned the wound, Clint's muscles slowly went slack as he drifted more firmly into unconsciousness. Phil paused long enough to check his pulse and his breathing to make sure both were holding steady. They were. Small miracles. He let out a relieved sigh before he went to work stitching the head wound closed.

Seven stitches and a clean bandage later and Phil had to pause and evaluate the rest of Clint's visible injuries. He decided that with Clint unconscious, he didn't need to worry about splinting the broken bones right away. He decided to focus on the lacerations on Clint's torso next, many of which were still bleeding sluggishly. He grabbed a pair of surgical scissors from the kit and worked carefully to cut Clint's shirt off him, having to painfully peel large portions away where the blood had fused it to his skin.

 _One thing at a time._

It was a mantra that Phil had picked up over years of working with Clint Barton. It was easy to get overwhelmed when looking at a lot of injuries that all needed attention. But all he could do was take things one step at a time.

He focused on the laceration across Clint's collarbone first. It was the deepest of the cuts on his torso. It took ten stitches before Phil felt that it would hold at least until the med evac got there. Then he took each laceration one at a time. He used bandages when he could, but with most of the cuts he couldn't avoid the stitches. It wasn't long before his hands started cramping, but he kept up a slow, methodical pace as he carefully sewed Clint back together.

For a long time, Phil worked in silence, hardly remembering that Natasha was even in the room with them.

"How many times have you done this?" she asked.

Phil was so focused that the sudden question he gave a small start, accidentally pinching Clint a little deeper than necessary with the needle. Clint's muscles jumped a bit, his eyelids twitched, but he didn't wake.

"More times than I could ever hope to count," Phil said distractedly as he refocused on the task at hand.

There was a short pause.

"So… were you a medic before you were Clint's handler?" she asked carefully.

Despite himself, Phil snorted a quiet laugh. "I knew my way around the basics of bandages, but it wasn't until I met Clint that I learned to do this kind of thing. He doesn't do anything halfway."

Phil didn't look at her, but he could practically feel Natasha's curious gaze weighing heavily on his back.

"Are SHIELD handlers…" Her question trailed off and Phil gave her a moment to gather her thoughts. "Are SHIELD handlers usually this hands-on?"

Phil quietly tied off the last stitch as he contemplated that. He carefully reached up and put the back of his hand on Clint's forehead. He didn't feel feverish. Another small victory.

"I take it your handler from the Red Room wasn't one to stitch you up after a mission?" Phil guessed.

"It wasn't their job," Natasha said, the response coming out like a knee-jerk reaction. Apparently, it was something she had been told many times over the course of her training.

"Then what was their job?" Phil asked, honestly curious as he checked Clint's pulse again. It was holding steady

"To make sure the mission got done," Natasha said in that same quick, well-practiced tone.

Finally, Phil turned to look at her. She was still standing a generous couple steps back from them, observing the process from a distance. She had her arms crossed over her chest in almost a protective way, like she was bracing to keep from collapsing in on herself. It was a rare moment in which her mask of indifference had slipped ever so slightly, and Phil could just spot the shinning concern in her eyes as her gaze drifted over to Clint's still form.

"We have a different dynamic here at SHIELD," he informed her. "I trust that my agents will get the mission done. Any good SHIELD handler will do the same."

"Then… what is your role?" Natasha asked, honestly perplexed.

"A SHIELD handler is more mission support, especially to an experienced agent," Phil told her. "I'm here to help and to provide backup as needed. I'm also here to make sure my agents make it back in one piece. And considering I've been Clint's handler for the past six years, that has become the main point in my job description. So, I've learned how to clean and stitch wounds, splint broken bones, place IVs, and a whole list of other medic skills because that's what Clint needs from me."

There was a long, weighted pause as Natasha struggled to absorb this information. She had been an active SHIELD agent for about two years now, but up until a couple months ago had been a solo operative with a different handler. It was a dynamic that she had struggled with, one that had only become more strained as time went on. Now more than ever, Phil regretted not stepping in sooner.

Six months ago she was abandoned by her handler, Agent Boggess, when she was taken by hostiles during a botched mission. Technically, protocol dictated the SHIELD did not mount rescue missions for captured agents, but with most handler and agent teams it was a protocol that was routinely ignored. But with their strained dynamic, it seemed that Boggess had been grateful for the out. Clint managed to get wind of this as they were wrapping up a mission only about a day's travel from where she had been left. Clint was notorious for his blatant disregard for protocol, but Phil had to admit it hadn't taken much for Clint to convince him to make the trip to recover Natasha.

As soon as they got back to base, Phil had gone to Fury to demand that Clint and Natasha be partnered operatives. Strike Team Delta was an idea that had been kicked around off and on over the course of the past year, but it was that incident that finally prompted Phil to give Fury that last push to make it happen.

"You've come a long way from the Red Room, Natasha," Phil finally pointed out. "We may have some flawed individuals in our organization, but as a whole SHIELD tries to be better than that."

Natasha nodded, though there was still an air of skepticism to her. Phil knew it would take time for her to get used to this new dynamic. It was something that he was experienced with from dealing with Clint coming to the organization after he had spent years as a teenaged drifter.

Really, it should have been Phil taking in Natasha from the start.

"He's… going to be okay?" Natasha asked, her eyes finally drifting to Clint's still form.

Phil smiled somberly as he looked back at Clint. "Kid's had worse. I've put him back together as best as I can and he seems to be stable. Hopefully that means that it looks worse than it is. We'll splint his broken bones before the med evac gets here. Until then, why don't you get some rest. It's been a long couple of days."

"I'm sorry," Natasha said suddenly, her gaze snapping back to Phil. "I'm sorry I brought this on you both. I shouldn't have come here."

Phil couldn't help but snort a small laugh as he shook his head. "You know, Clint told me the same thing years ago when his past caught up with him." Natasha looked surprised at that. "There isn't one SHIELD agent here that doesn't have dangerous enemies out for them. It's par for the course here. Clint of all people will understand." He met her gaze, sensing the fear that she didn't want to voice. "This wasn't your fault, Natasha. SHEILD is not going to punish you for this."

There was cautious relief in her features. "Thank you, Phil," she said quietly.

"Get some rest," Phil reiterated. "We've done all we can, all that's left is waiting for the med evac."

Natasha nodded. She gave Clint one more appraising look, as if assuring herself that he was really going to be okay, before she finally turned and headed across the room to where her own cot was.

Phil turned back to Clint, double checking to make sure all the bandages and stitches were holding while he debated starting a blood transfusion just to be safe.

"I ought to add 'specializes in wayward kids' to my resume," he told the unconscious Clint quietly with a small smile.

Phil had worked for SHIELD for fourteen years now. He had always been happy with his career choice, always saw himself rising through the ranks to support Fury. He had never imagined himself in this kind of role until Clint had stumbled into his life. Now more than ever, it was clear that this was his real calling. He had always known that Clint was meant for more than what he was given when he was a kid, and now it was clear that Natasha was in the same boat.

They were the Island of Misfit Toys. They were the outcasts. They were more than just a couple SHIELD agents and their handler, they were a makeshift family.

They were Strike Team Delta.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
SURRENDER**


	13. Surrender

**Author's** **Note:** Thank you SO MUCH to **BeautifullyDamagedSimplyMe** ; **ReadAgain** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **Lieutenant Tree** ; **white collar black wolf** ; **Lesfont25** ; **LisaG16** ; **BrokenKestral** for all your kind words and support on the last chapter! I appreciate the shit out of all of you beautiful people!

* * *

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN  
SURRENDER**

"Target down."

The air from Clint's lungs rushed out in a heavy wave as he made the quiet announcement in the room that was now ringing with silence. He dropped his right arm but didn't loosen the grip on his bow, rolling his shoulders and wincing as he felt his muscles pulling painfully. It had been a long day.

"You okay?" Natasha asked as she straightened, tucking her guns back into their holsters. She sent a measured look back toward him, indicating that she was referring to more than physically.

Despite his choice of career path as a professional assassin, Clint had never taken ending a life lightly. Admittedly, some lives were easier to take than others, but even the lowest scum that he gave a bullet or arrow to would leave a weight on him. And he often wondered if he would ever reach a point where that weight was too much.

"Yeah," Clint said stiffly, turning away from the body. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

It wasn't that he regretted what he had done. After all these years with SHIELD, Clint had the power to turn down any assignment he didn't feel strongly about. He never killed without feeling absolutely sure that it was the right thing to do.

And there was no doubt in his mind that Fedyenka Maklakov deserved to die before he could do any more harm to anyone else. The man ran one of the most extensive and dangerous human trafficking rings in the entire world. His men were infiltrated into law enforcement and orphanages around the world, strategically acquiring women and children who would not be missed and selling them for truly heinous purposes.

As someone who had spent time in several orphanages as a child, this hit too close to home for Clint.

The problem was that Fedyenka Maklakov had a family. When Clint had read that fact in the mission brief, it had honestly given him pause. Maklakov had a wife and three kids. His son was almost fifteen and he had two daughters, a seven-year-old and a two-year-old. It was unclear whether his wife knew about her husband's true profession, but surely those kids didn't, right?

It only got worse as he and Natasha started their surveillance on Maklakov. Even Natasha was impressed by the front this guy put on. Everything about the man screamed nonthreatening, from his thin frame to his delicate glasses to the soft-spoken way he conversed with his family and neighbors. Three days of watching his every move and if Clint hadn't seen the evidence himself even he would have doubted that Maklakov was anything other than your average, upper-class family man. It was unnerving.

"It'll be for the best in the long run," Natasha had to remind Clint softly as they had watched the man take his kids to school. She had obviously sensed his resolve wavering. "It's a family business. Sooner or later he's going to try and get those kids involved in it."

Clint nodded. She was right. He knew that she was right. So why was he letting this get under his skin?

Admittedly, he may have let his uneasy feelings get the best of them. They could have spent more time on surveillance and waited for a different opening, but Clint was anxious to get this over with. He made the call to go into the man's home that night after they witnessed his wife and children leaving. It was the first time Maklakov had been alone since they started watching him a week ago.

Clint had decided it was time to end this.

"Just give me a minute," Natasha said as she strode across the room toward the phone on the bedside table. The plan was to call for the local emergency services in order to spare the man's family from having to find the body.

He certainly didn't deserve the consideration… but his children did.

Clint's eyes swept to the window where they had entered. He was anxious to get out of here. But though there was no foreseeable threat in the house – Natasha had quietly taken out the two bodyguards in the house before they had cornered Maklakov – he wouldn't leave Natasha without backup.

The first indication that something was wrong was a moment later when Natasha skidded to a stop a few steps from the table, one hand reaching out toward the phone but not grabbing it. One look at her and suddenly he was back on mission. Her eyes were pinned over his shoulder where the door to the room was located. She didn't reach for her guns, so whatever had caused her to stop was either not a threat or too much of a threat. Clint slowly loosened the fingers of his left hand, already itching for an arrow, when one word caused the world to crash down around him.

"Uтец?"

Clint's whole body went cold and rigid. His Russian wasn't the best, but that word effortlessly translated in his head, echoing ominously as his heart skidded to a stop in his chest.

[ _Father?_ ]

Slowly, Clint turned around and was faced with the wide, terrified eyes of Nikolai Maklakov, the fourteen-year-old son of the man that Clint had just killed. And, for the first time in the almost eight years that he had been a SHIELD agent, Clint completely froze.

 _No…_ _no, nononono._ Clint's thoughts were moving so fast they were practically tripping over each other. _No, he'_ _s not supposed to be here. We saw him leave, he_ _'_ _s not supposed to be here._

"Что ты сделал?" the boy choked out, his terrified eyes shifting from Clint to Natasha and then back. [ _What did you do?_ ]

Nikolai's gaze slid to look at the body that Clint knew to be behind him, just as he knew full well that the arrow through Maklakov's heart was plainly visible. The riser of his bow suddenly burned in Clint's hand. He shifted slightly to better block the line of sight, but he knew by the devastated look that broke across Nikolai's face that the damage had been done.

It was a look that Clint wouldn't forget for as long as he lived.

"Не принимайте это близко к сердцу," Natasha spoke up, her voice gentle as she put out one hand placatingly toward the boy. "Мы не собираемся причинять тебе боль, Николай." [ _Take it easy. We_ _'_ _re not going to hurt you, Nikolai._ ]

It happened fast. If Nikolai had been a typical hostile, he would have been dead as soon as he moved. But he wasn't. He was a fourteen-year-old kid who had done nothing wrong. As Nikolai lunged for a table next to the door and yanked open a drawer, Natasha started forward, only to skid to a stop a moment later as the teenager suddenly brandished a handgun.

"Вернись!" Nikolai barked, but his voice cracked. [ _Stay back!_ ]

"Ладно ладно," Natasha said calmly, holding up her empty hands in front of her as she took a half step back. [ _Okay, okay._ ]

The gun was pointed at Natasha and Clint tensed, ready to pull an arrow if he went for the trigger. But then, Nikolai's eyes drifted toward Clint, his gaze taking in the bow held in Clint's hand. Clint could almost see the kid putting the pieces together, linking the arrow sticking out of his father to the weapon still gripped in Clint's hand.

"Ты убил его!" Nikolai shouted as he swung the gun around to point at Clint. "Ты убил моего отца! Убийцы!" [ _You killed him! You killed my father! Murderer!]_

Clint's throat contracted painfully as his heart twisted in his chest. He had nothing to say to that.

Nikolai was holding the gun with one shaking hand, the barrel wavering with the weight of the unsteady weapon, his eyes darting around wildly as more tears blurred his vision. It was painfully obvious this kid had never fired a gun before in his life. Clint wondered what the odds were that the safety was unknowingly on. He couldn't see from his angle. Could Natasha?

Clint's eyes darted to his partner, her hands up and her attention fully on Nikolai as she spoke calmly in Russian, trying to deescalate the situation.

"Твой отец не был тем, кого ты считаешь," she said. [ _Your father wasn't who you think he was._ ]

She took an experimental step forward, but Nikolai jabbed the gun hard in Clint's direction, his eyes never wavering from Clint.

"Заткнись!" he shouted desperately as several tears escaped his eyes and streaked down his cheeks. "Он убил его! Он убил его! Он заслуживает смерти!" [ _Shut up! He killed him! He killed him! He deserves to die!_ ]

Clint pinned his gaze on the barrel of the gun, tracking it carefully and making sure that though it wavered even more unsteadily by the moment, it stayed pointed in his general direction. Because if Nikolai turned that gun on Natasha, even for a second, that would change everything.

"Пожалуйста, поставьте пистолет, Николай." Natasha pleaded. "Никто не причинит вам вреда. Мы можем поговорить об этом." [ _Please, put the gun down, Nikolai. No one is going to hurt you. We can talk about this._ ]

But Nikolai wasn't interested in reasoning. Clint really couldn't blame the kid, given his dead father lay behind him with Clint's arrow still sticking out of him. The devastation in his gaze melted into fury, far too much than should have been possible for a fourteen-year-old kid. It was a look that Clint was all too familiar with from his own tragic childhood.

Clint didn't move as he observed the grim resolve settling into the lines in Nikolai's features. He could see that Nikolai's decision had been made. Clint met the kid's gaze, surprising even himself with how at peace he felt.

"прости," Clint said quietly. [ _I'm sorry._ ]

"Умер, убийца," Nikolai hissed. [ _Die, murderer._ ]

Nikolai shifted his finger to the trigger and Natasha moved. Clint kept his eyes on the gun, watching passively as it went off when Natasha was still a step away from the boy. He watched from a faraway place, everything suddenly moving in slow motion as Natasha grabbed the barrel of the gun, jerking it straight up as it went off again. Then she was ripping the gun from the boy's hand, tossing it away so that she could restrain him.

As Natasha bodily dragged a screaming and crying Nikolai from the room, Clint dimly became aware that he was still standing. That seemed odd to him. He looked down at himself curiously, searching for some sign of the bullet he knew had been fired at him. Even if it hit his vest, he should still be able to feel it… shouldn't he?

Suddenly, Natasha was back in front of him, looking over him critically.

"I don't think I'm hit," Clint said, detached disbelief in his tone.

Natasha's gaze narrowed in on his right arm. Without warning, she reached out and gripped his bicep, causing an inexplicable bite of pain to shock the limb. Clint flinched away as his eyes snapped down to his arm, taking in the dark stain on his sleeve that hadn't been there a minute ago. He slowly registered the wet feeling dripping down his arm as well as the pain settling into a dull ache.

Guess the kid managed to clip him after all.

"Emergency services are on the way," Natasha reported flatly. Sirens could just be heard in the distance, getting closer. "We need to go. We'll clean that up back at the safehouse."

Her dull, clinical tone told Clint just how pissed she was. He sighed heavily as he followed her to the window where they had made their initial entrance. It had been a long and draining couple weeks and all he wanted to do was lie down and get some shuteye before they had to fly back to base.

But every time he closed his eyes – even just a blink – he could vividly see the devastated look on Nikolai Maklakov's face. So, he wasn't counting on getting any real rest any time soon.

They scaled from the third-floor window up to the roof, where they were able to cross the city by rooftops to avoid detection. The silence was necessary, but it was also heavy with the sudden tension between them, charged like the moment just before a shock of static electricity.

Natasha didn't once look at him throughout the entire twenty-two-minute journey.

By the time the entered the safehouse through the roof access, there was anger coming off Natasha in waves. Surely all that emotion wasn't directed at him? She must be taking having the target's son walk in on them harder than he honestly thought that she would.

"Barton needs stitches," Natasha announced stiffly as she led the way down the stairs and into the main part of the safehouse.

Phil's gaze snapped up from the laptop he had been working on, zeroing in on Clint as soon as his boot hit the floor. Phil's brow furrowed with a worried confusion, obviously unsure how much he should be concerned considering Clint was still walking unaided.

"What happened?" Phil demanded as he stood up.

Rather than answering, Clint turned toward his cot pushed off against the far wall of the safehouse. All he wanted was to get off his feet, and he knew Phil could tend to him just as well no matter where he sat. He fell heavily onto the cot, reveling in the stiff, lumpy mattress.

"I got a little shot," Clint admitted tiredly.

"A _little_ shot?" Phil asked skeptically as he grabbed the med kit and headed over to where Clint sat.

"Just clipped," Clint assured him as he motioned vaguely toward his right bicep. "It's not bad."

Phil didn't look at all comforted as he pulled up a chair and placed the med kit on the cot next to Clint. Phil reached out and pulled at Clint's shirtsleeve – now completely soaked through with blood, to the point where Clint was feeling a bit lightheaded – to get a look at the wound. Phil gave a start as he pulled back his fingers, now stained with red. He apparently hadn't realized the extent of the bleeding as it was mostly camouflaged by Clint's black shirt.

Phil shot an accusatory look over his shoulder at Natasha, who was standing a few feet behind him, arms crossed over her chest and fiery gaze locked on Clint.

"You couldn't have paused for a minute to wrap it on the way over here?" Phil demanded, knowing full well that Clint wasn't one who would have worried about his own blood loss. That was a dead horse he had beaten countless times over his years as Clint's handler and had long ago given up on. "He's losing a decent amount of blood here."

Natasha's gaze turned sharp as a knife.

"If _tough guy_ ," she jerked her chin in Clint's direction, sarcasm dripping off her tone, "here can't be bothered to simply step out of the way of a bullet, he can surely make it back to the safehouse on his machoman energies alone."

"You're seriously mad at _me_?" Clint demanded.

"One step," Natasha practically hissed. "That's all it would have taken; one step and that bullet would have missed you. But you just stood there and _watched it happen_!"

"Really, that's what—"

"What if his hand hadn't been shaking, what if he had gotten off a better shot? He could have _killed you_ by dumb luck alone, Мудак. And you were just going to stand there and watch!"

"What the hell did you expect me to do?" Clint snapped, half rising from the cot before Phil grabbed him by his injured arm and unceremoniously yanked him back down with a yelp.

" _You_ , take your shirt off so I can stitch you up before you pass out from blood loss," Phil commanded of Clint before shifting to glance at Natasha. "And _you_ … _calmly_ tell me what the hell happened tonight."

"Target was taken down clean," Natasha said immediately, meeting Clint's glare as he started working his way out of his shirt. "But before we could make the call to emergency services, the target's fourteen-year-old son walked in on us."

"Sonofabitch," Phil hissed, closing his eyes as if in physical pain. Then he turned his head to look squarely at Natasha. "Did he see?"

Clint threw his discarded shirt to the floor at his feet with a sharp, audible _snap_ that had Phil's gaze cutting back to him.

"You mean did he see the dead body of his father with my arrow still sticking out of him?" Clint growled. "Oh yeah. He got the full fucking picture, don't you worry."

"Do you regret it?" Phil asked bluntly as he took out a few antiseptic wipes so that he could clean Clint's wound. "Do you regret killing Maklakov?"

"No," Clint said immediately, wincing slightly as the antiseptic bit at his skin. "I wouldn't have taken the shot if there were any doubts, you know that." He paused, briefly contemplating leaving it at that. But then a moment later, he found that he was speaking again, quieter this time. "But… that kid didn't deserve that."

"You know it's not you who did that to him, right?" Phil pointed out as he gathered the supplies he needed for stitches. "His father made the choices that led to this, not you."

"Yeah, but his goddamn _father_ ," Clint spat the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth, "didn't have to be the one to make the call and take the fucking shot."

"It was the right call, Clint," Natasha snapped.

"It doesn't make it an easy call," Clint shot back with a hard glare, only distantly aware of the pain of Phil starting on his stitches. "We can't all be as unfeeling as you are!"

The words burned as they left his mouth, regret crashing over him almost immediately. But before he had a chance to try to take it back, Natasha was storming over to them, getting right up in his face. Clint tensed, his muscles locking up in anticipation of an attack.

"You think I don't _feel_?" she said in a low, dangerous tone. It would have been less unnerving if she had yelled at him. "You don't think I saw the heartbreak on that kid's face and felt his pain? But that was _nothing_ compared to seeing him point that gun at you and seeing in your every muscle that you wouldn't move if he fired. It was nothing compared to the resignation that I saw on your face, like you had already accepted your inevitable death."

Everything was still. Even Phil had frozen mid-stitch. For an agonizingly long moment, the room seemed to exist in a vacuum.

"You don't get to do that," Natasha finally went on, meeting his gaze with a strange mix of anger and empathy. "You don't get to just give up and check out on me like that. You _never_ surrender, you hear me, Мудак? Not on my watch."

Her voice cracked ever so slightly, and Clint could hear what wasn't said. _You can't die on me. I can't lose you too._

Clint's heart twisted in his chest and the guilt fell heavily on his shoulders. He had been so selfish. He was so used to being a solo operative that he hadn't given any thought to anyone else. He was part of a team now, Strike Team Delta, and he couldn't be Natasha's partner if he secretly had a death wish.

"I'm sorry," Clint said quietly as he met her eyes sincerely.

Natasha didn't move. She hardly seemed to breath. She scrutinized Clint as if trying to find some indication that he was just trying to placate her. Finally, she turned on her heels as she stormed across the safehouse to where her cot was.

It was as close to an acceptance of Clint's apology as he was going to get.

Phil carefully went back to stitching up Clint's wound and the room was uncomfortably silent for several minutes.

"Мудак?" Phil finally said quietly, carefully repeating the Russian that Natasha had spat at Clint twice. "What does that mean?"

Clint couldn't help the small smirk that pulled at his lips. "Shithead."

Phil snorted a laugh. "Well, I have to say that I'm even more glad that she's in the field with you. Now there's someone to drag your stubborn, self-deprecating ass back here after tough missions."

Clint rolled his eyes but couldn't help but crack a small, weak smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

It had been a rough night. One that would hang heavily over him for years to come. But it was also the solid foundation from which Strike Team Delta was built on. It was the first time Natasha had come close to admitting to caring about him. It was also the first time Clint realized the advantage to having a partner in the field, not only to share the mission but also to share the burden of what they had to do. In a pinch, Phil had stepped in as backup over the years, but it was much different having a designated partner in the field on missions.

What they did was not pretty, and it was not easy. But Clint had always accepted it as a necessary burden that he bore in order to make the world a better place.

Tonight, that burden got just a little bit lighter.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
GRIEF**


	14. Grief

**Author's Note:** As always, I would like to take the time to sincerely and enthusiastically thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter! **Lesfont25** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **m klindt** ; **BrokenKestral** ; **LisaG16** ; and **Lieutenant Tree**! You guys are seriously awesome and your words really mean a lot to me! I cannot thank you guys enough for taking the time to let me know your thoughts on each chapter!

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN  
** **GRIEF**

Clint recognized the presence behind him without bothering to turn. He wasn't at all surprised. He had known that he wouldn't be able to drop off the map without his overbearing handler taking notice. Though he was relatively impressed it had happened so quickly; he had expected another hour or so to himself.

The archer was crouched in the grass, balanced carefully on his haunches as he braced his elbows on his knees and clasped his hand in front of him. His quiver was strapped securely to his back and his bow was threaded over his head and one shoulder. It wasn't that he thought he was going to need his weapons in this situation, but their weight provided a comfort that he desperately needed today.

Phil Coulson silently came up to stand beside him, just a little more than arm's length away. A safe distance until Phil could judge just how dark Clint's headspace was. Phil didn't say anything at first; he simply folded his arms comfortably behind his back as he followed Clint's line of sight to the event taking place down below.

Clint had been grateful to find the small, grassy hill just outside of the cemetery. It was a vantage point that he was comfortable with, that put him more at ease.

There had been a good-sized crowd at the memorial at the church. Clint had also observed that from a safe distance, not even daring to enter the church. But the burial was a much more intimate affair, obviously only meant for family and close friends.

He felt a bit awkward, a little like he was intruding on a moment that was not meant for him. But at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to leave.

It wasn't until the casket was being lowered into the ground that Phil finally spoke.

"He was a good man."

Clint could only nod, his eyes never leaving the scene as a clamp twisted around his insides.

"You okay, kid?" Phil asked carefully, and Clint could see in his peripheral vision that he was turning to really look at him.

Clint swallowed thickly. "I'm not really a kid anymore, Phil," he said thinly, without the lighthearted teasing that the statement usually held.

The sentiment was significantly heavier than usual. Because it felt as Frank Carson was being lowered in the ground, preparing for burial, so was his childhood.

Clint had a very traumatic start to life. He had been born to an abusive, alcoholic whose favorite target was his youngest son. In his first six years of life Clint had been taught that every day was a battle and fear was an unavoidable fact of life. When Clint was six years old, both his father and his mother were killed when his father drunkenly drove the family car into a tree. Clint and his older brother Barney had been declared wards of the state and placed in the care of Child Protective Services. They were bounced around to four different homes over the course of three and a half years before they lost faith in the system and ran away.

That was when they came across Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders. Frank Carson, owner of the carnival, took them in upon hearing their story, no further questions asked. In exchange for work, he had given them food and place to sleep. It was the first place that Clint finally felt safe for any extended period of time. Even though his time at the carnival didn't end well, he still looked at Frank Carson as the first person to really give him and his brother a real chance in life.

It was several years after he left the carnival before Clint worked up the nerve to send Frank a letter. Since then, they would exchange a few letters a year. Frank was always better at keeping up with writing than Clint was, but it was something that Clint valued. After all, Frank was the first real father figure he had in his life.

And when he got word that Frank Carson had suffered a sudden heart attack and passed away, Clint had taken it harder than he thought he would.

"He was damn proud of you, Clint," Phil told him gently, bringing him back to the present. "Even though you couldn't tell him what you were doing with your life, he could tell that you were happy. That's all he ever wanted for you."

"He deserved so much more time than this," Clint said quietly.

"Yes, he did," Phil agreed. "But what he did with his time was extraordinary. He gave so many kids like you a second chance, a safe place."

"So, if you lead an extraordinary life, it's okay to die before your time?" Clint asked bitterly.

Clint regretted his tone immediately. He knew that Phil was only trying to help, but Clint just wasn't in the mood to be comforted right now.

"He led a meaningful life," Phil said evenly, undeterred. "That's all any of us can really hope for at the end, no matter when it comes."

Clint supposed that Phil had a point. But right now, it didn't make it hurt any less.

They watched in silence as a ceremonial handful of dirt was dropped into the grave by each member of the group of mourners. Then, one by one, each person left site sight, wiping tears and supporting each other.

Clint knew that he only had a short window of time between when the mourners left and when the groundskeepers would come to fill in the grave. He moved quickly down from the hill, Phil falling in step behind him without question or comment. They had to scale the fence into the cemetery before finally approaching the fresh grave.

Clint approached the grave with trepidation. He had never once visited his parents' graves after the funeral, it was too painful to see his mother buried right next to the man who made her life a living hell and ultimately was the reason she died.

His eyes pinned on the smooth, dark grey granite of the simple headstone and the words that was meticulously carved into it.

 **Francis Andrew Carson  
** " _To live in the hearts  
_ _of those we love  
_ _is never to die."_

It was like all the air had been forcibly sucked out of Clint's lungs. He wasn't sure how long he stood there reading the epitaph over and over. It was almost as if it had been picked specifically because someone knew that it was what Clint needed to know in this moment.

He took an unsteady breath before he went to a knee next to the open grave. He reached out and grabbed a handful of dirt from the nearby pile.

"Rest well, my friend," Clint said quietly as he held his hand over the grave and slowly let the dirt run through his fingers and to the coffin six feet below. "Thank you. For everything. I never would have made it to where I am today without you. I'll never forget you."

After a moment of silence, Phil stepped forward and reached down and to place a gentle hand on Clint's shoulder. Clint did not flinch away from the contact, taking comfort in the fact that Phil had come all the way out here despite the fact that he knew Clint tended to push people away in times of trauma. He didn't know what he had done to deserve Phil Coulson as his friend, but he would never take that connection for granted.

Finally, Clint pushed himself to his feet and the two turned and started along the path out of the cemetery.

"Do you know what's going to happen to the carnival?" Phil asked.

Carson's Carnival had been passed down through the Carson family for five generations. Unfortunately, Frank Carson had never married and had never had any kids. The tradition would end with him.

"Frank retired as ringmaster a few years ago," Clint told him. "Jack Mallory, one of the longtime performers who has been with the carnival since before I was even there had taken over. Frank left running the carnival to him in his will." He paused. "I arranged it so he will be getting a sizable, anonymous donation tonight. He's got a few more coming to him too, to make sure that the transition goes smoothly and the carnival doesn't suffer."

Phil smiled at him as he clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a good person, Clint Barton."

Clint gave him a small smile in return. "It's the least I could do to hopefully help Frank rest a little easier. It's his legacy, after all."

To Clint, it seemed like such a small thing that he could do for a man who had meant so much to him. A man who had taken in a small, scared Clint Barton at the age of ten and given him a place to call home. A man who had taught him that the whole world wasn't as cold and cruel as the first ten years of his life were.

He would never forget Frank Carson or the impact he had on his life.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT  
** **EXPLOSION**


	15. Explosion

**Author's Note:** We start out this chapter like every other... shout outs to my favorite people! **BrokenKestral** ; **Reagangirl** ; **m klindt** ; **white collar black wolf** ; **LisaG16** ; and **Katie MacAlpine** I very much appreciate all your support! You are all so wonderful!

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIFTEEN  
** **EXPLOSION**

Clint swept into the empty room in the abandoned building, his bow held loosely in one hand and the fingers of his other hand tingling in anticipation of drawing an arrow. Even though the room was completely empty, Clint still moved through it, his eyes sharp as he looked for anything that looked out of place. He carefully catalogued the thick layer of dust that covered the floor, the mold that climbed the walls, the window that was sealed shut, the stale smell to the air pushing in thickly around him.

"Clear," he announced as he reached the window on the far side of the room.

"Something's not right here," came Natasha's voice from where she was watching his six.

He turned to see her taking a few careful steps into the room, sidearm in hand as she looked around critically. She paused, turning her head to meet his gaze with wary suspicion shining brightly.

He nodded. "Something feels off," he agreed, his eyes still darting around the room, constantly looking for a threat.

They had received a tip that the head of a human trafficking organization that they were tracking down was working out of this building. But so far, they had found no evidence that anyone had inhabited this building in years.

Something was definitely very wrong here.

"I think we should go," Natasha suggested tensely. "We should regroup and reassess."

"Good idea," Clint said.

But they didn't get the chance.

A hidden panel suddenly hissed open in the ceiling, an object falling out of it. In the span of a breath, Clint had an arrow drawn from his quiver and nocked and Natasha had her sidearm up and aimed. The object stopped in midair about halfway down, hovering in the middle of the room like a small drone. Before either of them could react further, a red, laser-like beam shot out from the drone, sweeping the room. Both Clint and Natasha froze in place, recognizing what was happening even before they heard the mechanical voice emanating from the device.

"Armed."

It was a new kind of technology that they had gotten reports on, but up until this moment neither of them had encountered a live one in the field. It was a drone-based bomb that was activated by motion. After it mapped the room, if anything moved it would detonate. From reports it was thought that there was a delay of a few seconds between the trigger motion and the detonation… but that wasn't something they could bank on.

For a minute, everything was deathly still. Clint moved his eyes carefully as he analyzed the situation, wary of just how sensitive this thing was. He was standing about halfway between the window and the drone, with the drone hovering between him and the only door out of this room. That wasn't good. He could take a small bit of relief in the fact that Natasha was on the other side of the room, still relatively close to the door. She still had he gun up, her arm locked and unmoving, but Clint knew that she could only hold that for so long. He was suddenly relieved he hadn't actually lifted his bow when this thing had dropped from the ceiling. One thing was painfully obvious though… they couldn't stand there forever.

They needed a plan and they needed it now.

"You take the stairs," Clint said lowly, moving his lips as little as he could. His eyes darted to the doorway behind Natasha, picturing the stairwell he knew to be just outside of it and calculating. It would be close, but she should be able to make it. "I'll take the window."

"No," Natasha said firmly. "You've got a three story drop out there, not a viable option."

"It's my _only_ option," Clint said calmly.

"You saying you're too slow to make it to the stairs?" Natasha said, a hint of teasing in her voice that didn't match the grim look on her face.

"I'm saying the stairs are rude enough to be situated just outside of how far I can cover in a few seconds," Clint said. There was a pause. "Nat, it's the only way," he insisted.

"No, it can't be," Natasha said stubbornly.

"I'm open to other options, but we can't stay here forever." He glanced to Natasha briefly before returning his gaze to the explosive in the middle of the room.

Natasha pressed her lips together. Her eyes darted to the window that Clint knew to be behind him, doing her own calculations.

"Can you break the glass with an arrow first?" she asked.

Clint paused, eyeing the arrow he had nocked and doing some mental calculations.

"I should be able to get the shot off, but I don't know how much it's going to help at this distance," he said rationally. "But it'll hopefully at least weaken the glass before I hit it and I can still lead with my bow." There was another pause. "Tasha, we gotta do this now before something sets this thing off before we do."

Natasha swallowed. "Okay," she said, resigned. "But you better make it out the other side, Barton."

"I'll do my best, Romanoff," Clint said with a slight smirk. "Ready?"

"Yes," Natasha said, and Clint could see the subtle way her muscles tightened.

"Three…" he started, visualizing his next moves carefully. "Two… _one_!"

There was no time to watch Natasha, to make sure she got to safety. Clint whipped around, snapping off a shallow shot, the arrow hitting the window as he was lunging toward it. The shot managed to crack the window but of course didn't go so far as to break it. Clint lifted his bow with one hand, leading with one end in front of his shoulder, and curled his other hand up over his head to hook on the base of his skull. He inhaled sharply as he reached the window, bracing for impact.

In the end, he wasn't quite sure if the bow helped with the impact or not. He also wasn't quite sure if the explosion hit him before or after he hit the window.

Instinct was ingrained into Clint at times like this, his body fighting to survive even without conscious thought. Keeping one hand hooked over his head in an attempt to protect his skull, he threw his weight in order to turn himself in midair as only an acrobat could, rolling so that he was facing the grey sky hanging overhead. Then he let the rest of his muscles go slack and he exhaled, resisting the urge to breathe in again until he felt the jarring impact with the ground that rattled through his bones.

The pain hit him a moment later.

His chest felt like it was clamped in a vice and he had to deliberately heave each excruciating breath into his lungs. He shifted slightly and his back screamed out at him, sending a wave of dizziness and nausea clawing through him. He squinted open his eyes, but the world tilted violently around him and ended up squeezing them shut again. All his energy was concentrated on just taking one gasping, agonizing breath after another.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there before he finally felt a familiar presence. He pried his eyes open again, seeing the bright red blur in stark contrast to the gray sky above. A wave of relief overtook him as he studied her, seeing that she looked no worse for the wear. She must have had enough time to drop into the stairwell that had been just outside of the room, shielding her from most of the explosion.

"Still… alive…" Clint felt compelled to point out, choking out the words with a pained smirk.

Strangely, he didn't notice that he couldn't actually hear the words that he had spoken. It wasn't until he saw Natasha's mouth moving that he realized how unnaturally silent the world suddenly was.

The explosion must have blown out his hearing aids.

 _At least I can't get any deafer,_ Clint thought dully to himself as the world faded away.

* * *

Tapping.

That's the first thing he was aware of as the darkness around him began to thin. Something tapping firmly on the palm of his upturned hand. He focused on the sensation, slowly piecing together the Morse code. _S… A… F…E….S…A…F…E….S…A…F…E….S…A…F…E…._

Waking up from an unnaturally unconscious state without his hearing aids was wildly disorienting and nerve-wracking for Clint. He was known to wake up in a blind panic, thinking that he was in danger only to find out that he was in the hospital or infirmary. And often he didn't figure out that fact until after he had done some kind of damage to himself in his panic. If he had a dollar for every IV needle he had accidentally ripped out…

He, Phil and Natasha had come up with the Morse code strategy after a few disastrous incidents of Clint waking up in a panic and the struggle to communicate with him in that state. Phil or Natasha would tap out the word ' _safe_ ' in Morse code over and over on his hand, assuring him before he even opened his eyes that he didn't need to panic.

Clint curled his hand around the tapping fingers, stilling them and assuring the person that he got the message. He could tell just by touch that it was Natasha.

Carefully, he gathered up his strength before he finally blinked his eyes open. The infirmary was unsteady around him with an uncomfortable floating quality to it. He frowned as he shifted his attention to the two figures at his bedside.

Phil leaned forward, pointing to his head and then turning that hand into a fist and bumping it against the open palm of his other hand.

 _Concussion._

That explained why the room kept shifting uncomfortably.

Phil and Natasha patiently explained to him that he was a damn medical marvel – so what else was new? – signing slowly and simply to make it easier for him to understand in his concussed state. In addition to the concussion, he had broken and cracked ribs, a punctured lung and a broken shoulder blade. But other than that, he was in remarkable health for a person who was thrown out of a third-floor window.

"Just another day in the office," Clint murmured with a tired smirk.

He couldn't help but snort a tired laugh at the mirrored eye rolls he got from both Phil and Natasha.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
** **JAIL CELL**


	16. Jail Cell

**Author's Note:** Hi everyone! Sorry this is a little bit late, it's been a crazy busy weekend! The day is not over yet though! Thank you so much to **Katie MacAlpine** and **white collar black wolf** for taking the time to review the last chapter! I SO appreciate the support and the feedback! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, please don't forget to leave a review and let me know what you think!

There's a bit of Colombian Spanish in this chapter, I don't translate them because I think you get the gist from context. But just know if you decide to google them there are some REALLY bad words in there haha!

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIXTEEN  
JAIL CELL**

On the outside, he was completely calm. His face was a mask of blank disinterest, his muscles relaxed as he absentmindedly tapped his index finger on his knee that was propped up in from on him.

On the inside, he was seething.

Clint's eyes were a cold fire as his gaze was pinned on the scene just outside of his jail cell. If the spark in a person's eye could kill, every thug that surrounded Natasha Romanoff would have dropped dead days ago. Clint carefully cataloged each and every hit that landed on his partner. He listened to her quiet grunts as she took each and every hit and noted when she let slip a louder yelp than she normally would have.

These sessions were beginning to wear on her.

When they finally finished with her and threw her back in the cell – quite literally – Clint still didn't move. As their captors slammed the door shut, Natasha pulled herself up, gasping painfully for breath. It wasn't until the thugs left the hall, the closed door isolating them, that he pushed himself forward.

They didn't need to speak, he knew exactly where to check her injuries, his sharp gaze having taken in every moment of the torture she had endured. She let him without protest, knowing that there wasn't much that could be done but that he needed this for his own piece of mind.

Heavily bruised ribs, possibly fractured, but no obvious breaks. Small miracles. Her pupils looked properly dilated, low chance of a concussion. They had taken a knife to her chest and torso, but they were all shallow, superficial wounds meant to frighten more than anything. Physically, there wasn't anything that she wouldn't survive another night with.

However, the too strategic cuts in her shirt made his blood boil.

She held the fabric shut with one hand – which Clint decided not to comment on how that particular hand was trembling slightly – and didn't meet his eyes as he did his inspection of her injuries. The Black Widow was no stranger to interrogation and torture. She could endure better than the best of them. She could endure torture for hours that would break lesser men in minutes. But days? Even she had her breaking points.

After he was done, he silently reached one hand back over his head and grabbed his shirt at the back of his collar and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.

"I don't need that," Natasha murmured stubbornly even before he held it out to her, still not looking at him. Her pride had obviously taken a serious hit.

"Nat…" Clint said lowly, dipping his head so that he could meet her gaze, silently pleading with her to just take the damn shirt.

This was a situation he was becoming uncomfortably familiar with. The two of them getting captured by hostiles was a rare thing, but when it did happen the situation tended to be much the same. The logic seemed to be to capture the team which included a male and a female, and then torture the female until the male could no longer take it, gave in to chivalry and started spilling his secrets. They seemed to think that hurting Natasha would get them more than hurting Clint.

And while there was no arguing that Natasha had the more difficult job, Clint struggled with his end of the bargain as well. Because he could not react when Natasha was getting tortured. He couldn't lunge at the bars and yell threats and obscenities at their captors. He could not show the pain that this caused him, knowing that they were torturing her for his benefit. The double-edged sword of it all was that if he showed at all that he cared for his partner, the worse the torture would get. So, the only thing he could do for Natasha was to pretend he didn't care, pretend that it didn't affect him.

Natasha sighed in resignation as she reached out and took the black t-shirt. Clint allowed her a semblance of privacy by turning his back to her while she shrugged into it, hoping it would allow her a little of her dignity back.

"How's that escape plan coming?" Natasha asked, her voice thin, an obvious attempt to deflect attention from her current condition.

Because SHIELD didn't do rescues. They were on their own if they wanted to make it out of here alive.

Clint turned back to find that Natasha had pulled his t-shirt firmly into place. He felt a pang as he realized that he probably should take it back before the thugs came for another torture session. They couldn't afford for this shirt to also be ripped to the point of taking away Natasha's remaining dignity, which was already hanging on by a thread. And he also couldn't be caught showing that much concern for her.

"They only brought in six guys today," he told her in an undertone. "One of which wasn't even armed. They're getting sloppy. We should get a nice, clean opening in another day or two." He paused. "Can you handle it?"

Natasha snorted. "Do I have a choice." It wasn't posed as a question, her voice flat and emotionless.

But Clint believed that there was always a choice.

* * *

"Rise and shine, _cabrón y perra._ "

Montejo was a large, beefy man who was in charge of the prisoner interrogations, a job he made no effort to hide that he thoroughly enjoyed. That day he came swaggering into the room with his usual jovial greeting and the same five thugs in tow as the day before, all heavily armed.

Clint sighed inwardly as he sized up the four men from where he sat on the back wall of the cell. Today wasn't going to be their day.

Natasha stirred from where she had gotten a precious few hours of restless sleep on the floor of the cell. Her eyes snapped open, immediately awake and aware of her surroundings. But the way that she pushed herself upright was slow and wary, a heaviness hanging around her. Clint reminded himself that it was likely for the benefit of their captors to appear weaker than she was, but it still drew a renewed spike of anger from within him.

He hadn't been able to bring himself to wake her in order to take his shirt back the night before.

"Let's go, _perra,_ it's play time," Montejo sneered as he unlocked the door to the cell. He pulled the door open with a loud, grating screech as the metal dragged across the concrete floor.

"Still taking the easy way out, I see," Clint suddenly spoke up lowly.

Montejo's gaze snapped to him and Clint couldn't help but smirk at the surprise in his eyes before the man managed to slip his mask of indifference back into place. Clint could sense Natasha's sharp gaze on him as well, but he deliberately avoided looking at her.

"You know you have the power to put a stop to this, _cabrón,_ " Montejo said with a sly smirk. "All you have to do is tell me who you work for, and all this will end."

"You know, I've been saying for years now that I've needed to take a vacation," Clint said conversationally. He passed an appraising glance around the cell. As he did, he caught Natasha's eye for just a split second, and could practically hear the way her features shouted _What the hell are you doing?!_ He ignored the look. "The accommodations leave a bit to be desired, but it is nice to finally get some downtime."

At that, Montejo glared. "Careful, _careverga_. You make me think you're too comfortable, we're gonna have to do something about that."

Clint scoffed loudly. "You clearly don't have the balls for that, _perro hijueputa_."

Clint was vaguely surprised and a little relieved that that was all it took. Montejo was suddenly barreling into the cell, practically growling. He reached Clint in three long strides, snagged Clint by the neck with one beefy hand, and bodily lifted him and slammed him against the stone wall behind him. Clint was ready for him. He tucked his chin to keep his head from hitting the wall, and after the impact he lifted his head and spat a thick, juicy loogie. His impeccable aiming earned him a direct hit in Montejo's open eyeball.

Montejo yelled in rage and for just a moment, he dropped Clint and took a step back. The reprieve didn't last… but Clint hadn't expected it to. As the fist came rocketing for his face, he wanted until the last possible second to drop down. Montejo's fist slammed into the stone wall, eliciting a screech of pain and more rage.

Clint used his new angle to lunge forward and dig his shoulder into Montejo's gut. As the man doubled over, Clint darted around him, coming up behind him and twisting Montejo's arm behind his back, pinning him roughly to the wall.

" _No eres rival para mí, zunga_ ," Clint hissed lowly in the man's ear. [ _You are no match for me, bitch._ ]

"Let him go and step back before I blow your fucking head off!" a heavily accented voice snarled from behind him at the same moment that he felt the barrel of a gun press up against the back of his head.

Clint waited a tense moment, just to prove the point that he wouldn't be easily pushed around. Finally, he released Montejo's arm and took a cautious step back, slowly putting his empty hand out to either side. The barrel of the gun lowered to his neck as someone roughly grabbed a fistful of his hair at the crown of his head, causing Clint to wince.

As Montejo turned to him, the man looked murderous. "I'm going to make you wish you'd never been born, _masca verga."_

"Give it your best shot," Clint challenged with a smile.

Clint was dragged backward by the grip in his hair. As he stumbled passed, he caught a glimpse of Natasha. She had come up to one knee but had frozen with two guns on her from two of the thugs. She glared hard at him as Clint was dragged passed her and out of the cell.

Clint's features remained impassive as his wrists were shackled. He had no reaction when the shackles were attached to a chain hanging from the ceiling and he was roughly hoisted up so that his toes barely brushed the floor below him. As he watched the thugs gather a couple wooden bats, Clint retreated deep within himself, carefully building his mental defenses in anticipation of the attack.

" _Careverga piñata_ ," Montejo laughed just before he swung the bat around and connected it solidly with Clint's torso.

Clint lost time as he separated himself from dwelling on the constant pain. Hits would come from all angles, several at a time and all Clint could do was focus on anything to compartmentalize this pain. He focused on the fact that he had spared Natasha from this pain today. And it was the first time since they had been captured when he finally felt like he had some sort of say over the situation.

Finally, bruised and bloody, he was lowered back down to the ground and his shackles were released. His feet failed him, and he had to be dragged back to the cell, tossed unceremoniously onto the stone floor in a jarring heap. And then, laughing amongst themselves, the thugs left them.

"If you didn't look so pathetic, I'd have half a mind to beat you myself," Natasha said quietly from somewhere behind him.

Clint snorted half a laugh. He couldn't help but tense as he felt the small hands carefully checking his back. After a minute, Natasha must have been satisfied with the condition of his back, because she grabbed his shoulder and gently rolled him over so that she could get to his front. He groaned lowly as the motion pulled at his abused bones and muscles.

"You shouldn't have done that," Natasha went on lowly as she began checking his ribs for breaks. He sucked in a sharp breath as he felt one rib in particular shift under her touch. "I could have handled it."

"I know," Clint admitted hoarsely. He looked up at her, but she wouldn't look him in the eye as she continued checking his injuries. "But you didn't have to." He took a shuddering breath before he went on. "Anyway, it worked out. Because I have our exit strategy."

Natasha's gaze finally snapped up to meet his as he smirked.

* * *

After beating Clint to a pulp, Montejo was immediately lulled into a false sense of security. The next day he turned up with only three thugs in tow. Two on one odds were even better than Clint had been hoping for.

Clint was lying on the floor in the middle of the cell right where the men had left him the day before. Natasha had shifted to the back corner of the cell, curled in on herself. The setup had the desired effect. With Clint seemingly unconscious and Natasha seemingly broken, Montejo and only one thug entered the cell, neither of them even bothering to draw any weapons as they loudly boasted their perceived victory over the two assassins.

It was too easy.

As Montejo leaned over her, reaching for her, Natasha sprung up. The man's neck was broken before he had a chance to comprehend what was happening. Clint was moving before Montejo's dead body hit the floor. He was out of the cell and disarming the nearest thug in the next breath. Two well placed shots in the following breath had both men hitting the floor. Clint had a minute to check the ammo and set up his stance before the reinforcements came, drawn by the commotion. They all came through one door, like shooting fish in a barrel.

The whole thing was over in under three minutes.

"That all of them?" Natasha asked warily as she came up behind him.

Clint reached out and braced a hand on the back of a nearby chair, taking in a few wheezing breaths as he counted the bodies again, glancing over his shoulder to take stock of the two that Natasha had taken out.

"That's all the major players," Clint confirmed breathlessly. He shifted and winced at the pressure his broken ribs but on his lung. "There might be… a few stragglers to take out on our way out."

"Speaking of which."

When she didn't go on, Clint finally turned to look at her. The first thing he noticed was that she too was bracing herself, one hand wrapped around the chains that hung from the ceiling that had held Clint the day before. The second thing he noticed that he was holding a cell phone out to him. Clint took in a fortifying breath before he willed himself to reach out and take the phone.

Two minutes to call Phil and tell him where they were.

Fourteen minutes to sweep the rest of the compound and make sure not one person was left alive.

Seventeen minutes to make it to the rendezvous spot where Phil was to meet them with the Quinjet.

Eleven minutes until the jet finally appeared from the night and another two and a half minutes for it to land.

As Clint's boot hit the metal ramp, he felt like he could collapse right then and there. It wouldn't be the first time he hadn't been able to make it up the ramp after a rough mission. But Natasha was still putting one foot in front of the other, and Clint figured if she could then he could too.

"Are you both alright?" Phil demanded, emerging from the cockpit just as they got to the cargo bay. He looked them both over with concern, lingering on Clint's bare and beaten torso before shifting over to an equally bruised and battered Natasha, who was still wearing Clint's shirt hanging off her thin frame.

"Nothin' that can't wait," Clint assured their handler wearily, waving Phil back toward the cockpit. "Let's just go home."

Phil eyed the pair of them skeptically. But rather than push the issue, he simple shrugged out of his jacket, handed it over to Clint and then headed back to the pilot's seat. Clint knew without a doubt that once they were in the air and autopilot was engaged, Phil would be back to do his own assessment of their injuries.

As they jet took off again, Natasha moved over to one of the passenger seats in the back of the Quinjet and Clint followed. As he settled into the seat next to her, he could hardly remember a time when he had been so relieved to get off his feet.

It had been an incredibly long five days. Or had it been six? Clint had honestly lost track.

In the two years that they had been partnered together, Natasha had never once sought out physical comfort. But as the jet began to level off, she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder as the exhaustion finally got the better of her and her eyelids slid shut. The gesture had come so naturally it was a wonder that it wasn't a regular occurrence. Clint merely leaned his cheek to rest on the top of her head, taking comfort in the feel of her slow, even breaths as she drifted to sleep.

They were both still breathing. They were both in one piece. And they were heading home. Clint counted that as a win in his book.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
GAGGED**


	17. Gagged

**Author's Note:** DUDES! This story has just hit exactly 100 REVIEWS! I didn't even realize it was that close! Thank you SO MUCH for all the love and support on this story! I've really been working hard on it and I'm so glad people are enjoying it! Special shout outs to **Lesfont25** ; **LisaG16** ; and **Katie MacAlpine** who took the time to review the last chapter! I very appreciate appreciate the crap out of you guys!

Okay a couple quick things. First off, this chapter got away from me a bit haha. The "gagged" prompt kind of morphed into more of a "sensory deprivation" theme. Which is one of the other prompts (which is coming later in this story), but I had already written that one and didn't want to replace it. I agonized over changing this one to better match the prompt, but I decided I liked this one too much to cut it! So please excuse that this one it's the best representation of the prompt haha.

Second thing is I wanted to let you guys know that I'm going to be traveling for the next two weeks. I'm hoping that this isn't going to affect my posting schedule because I have the next two chapters basically done. It'll depend on how easy it is to post from the app, I've never posted from the app so we'll see how that goes! Fingers crossed!

Okay, with all that out of the way, we continue!

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN  
** **GAGGED**

Getting captured by hostiles was not fun. Clint was fairly certain there wasn't anyone in their right mind who would argue him on that fact. But it was an unfortunate part of his job description. Sometimes it was necessary to get captured in order to gain intel or get in a better position for a strategic assassination. Sometimes it was just dumb luck when all the elements seemed to be against him and a mission just went to absolute shit.

This was definitely the latter situation.

He was dragged into a small room with a single light and no windows where they forced him into a metal chair and his wrists were bound tightly to each arm of the chair and his ankles bound to the legs of the chair. That was fine. He didn't flinch when a blindfold was wound over his eyes. It was annoying when the forced some kind of foul-tasting fabric into his mouth, tying it off behind his head. It was still a manageable situation.

What really got him was when they took the comms. out of his ears. His specialty designed SHIELD comms. were small and discreet. Most of the time they went overlooked if he was captured. Unfortunately, these particular hostiles were more perceptive than most.

Clint thrashed violently against his bindings until his wrists felt wet with what was likely blood. He grunted behind his gag as he lashed out with his head, feeling the satisfying crunch of someone's nose against his skull and hearing a shout of pain. The triumph didn't last though. His head was roughly grabbed and pinned while his comms. were yanked unceremoniously out of his ears.

And the world went silent.

The kicker was that these hostiles had no idea what they had done. They had no idea that Clint was deaf and that his comms. were specially made to double as his hearing aids. These men had no idea that they had effectively trapped him in his own head, unable to see, unable to speak, and now unable to hear anything going on around him.

For an agonizing few minutes he was left to float in the endless darkness. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as he tried to reach out with senses that he didn't have, trying desperately to figure out what was going to happen next. Would they just leave him there to be completely consumed by this nothingness?

He was strangely relieved when the first punch caught him in the side of the temple, a jarring reminder that there was still life outside of his impeded senses. A second blow quickly followed just under his ribs, rattling his bones and sending air hissing out from around the gag. He collapsed forward and was rewarded with a staggering force to his face that could have been a punch, a kick or some kind of blunt weapon for all he knew, sending him rocking back in the chair.

After that, the hits all blurred together. He couldn't tell punches from kicks, but he was pretty sure there were multiple assailants as several hits would land at about the same time. He had no idea where the next blow was going to hit – face, head, back, abdomen, knees, wrists all seemed to be fair game – and was powerless to brace himself or protect himself in any way.

If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the subtle shifts in the air around him, but as the attack went on his grasp on concentration was quickly slipping through his fingers. All he could really do was let his muscles go slack and wait for it to be over. There would periodically be a pause in the assault and Clint would wonder if it was over, only to be blindsided by another blow.

This could have gone on for several minutes, several hours, or several days, there was no way for Clint to tell. He was so disoriented, that he wasn't even sure when the assault stopped, slow to realize that his world was still, and he wasn't too sure how long it had been like that. Had he blacked out? Were there people still in the room with him? Would the assault start up again at any second?

Physical torture was something that Clint Barton could handle, something that he had dealt with many times over the years. But this form of psychological torture was new. He could handle not being able to hear the world… but not being able to hear _or_ see? That was something he was woefully unprepared for.

The nothingness stretched on and his world remained still. This should have been a relief, but somehow it seemed so much worse than being beaten to a pulp. At least if they were beating up on him he had a connection with the world around him. This emptiness threatened to crush him and consume him, playing tricks with his mind. He would think he felt movement around him and would flinch violently away from the perceived threat, but no blow would come.

During the long stretch of nothingness, he attempted to ground himself as best he could with his limited options. He periodically shifted his wrists within their bonds, rubbing his wounds roughly against the rope, using the bite of pain and the wet, sticky feeling of fresh blood on his wrists as a reminder that he was still real, still alive. He also counted to himself, marking the passage of time.

 _Three hundred thirty-six… Three hundred thirty-seven… Three hundred thirty-eight… Three hundred thirty-nine… Three hundred thirty-nine…. Three hundred thirty—_

He groaned in frustration around his gag and dug his wrist particularly hard into the ropes as he started over yet again. He tried not to think too hard about what it meant that he was forgetting numbers sooner and sooner every time he did this activity.

Was he starting to lose his mind?

He also had time to think, though the thoughts in his brain seemed more and more fleeting as time went on. One thing he couldn't help but think of were his comms. They were specially equipped with a GPS tracker and its how Phil usually found him when he was captured. But Phil wouldn't have known he was captured until he missed his check in, which was several hours after he was taken. If these hostiles broke his comms. before Phil tried to track him…

There was a really good chance no one was coming for him. That thought turned his stomach to the point where he gagged against the fabric in his mouth as his stomach tried to expel what it didn't have.

 _This can't be it, this can't be how my life ends…_

He took several shallow, panicked breaths, trying in vain to calm himself. There was nothing that he could do but wait to see how this turned out. This was completely out of his hands and that thought made him want to scream until his vocal chords ruptured. Instead, he leaned his head back and began counting his breaths again, using each breath to remind himself that for now he was still alive.

 _One… two… three… four…_

An indistinguishable amount of time later, just when his aching muscles started to unclench, a colossal force hit him in the face so fast that his mind simply could not compute the sudden assault to his frayed senses until three hits later. His mind spiraled wildly into a panic when he was suddenly aware that he wasn't getting any air and had no idea why. He pulled uselessly against his restraints and ironically it was a punch to the gut that finally forced his brain to comprehend that air could still move through his mouth around the gag. As he wheezed air through the gag and into his lungs, the coppery taste that wet his lips made him aware of blood. And finally, his muddled brain made the leap to realize his nose was gushing blood and probably broken.

His world was nothing but helplessness and pain. Was this what hell was like?

He lost track of how many times they had beaten him. He lost track of specific injuries as his whole body constantly felt like it was on fire with just the minimum movement of breathing. His head hung limply on his shoulders, floating in the darkness that surrounded him, not even completely sure if he were still conscious. He had given up on all attempts to ground himself. He had reached his limit.

Hands lifted his head. That was strange. He hadn't felt anything that lasted longer than a strike since he had lost his most important senses. Despite himself, his heartbeat spiked, sending adrenaline through his veins. Even if this was the end, he was never one to go quietly.

It was such a small thing, but it was all he had control over. He swung his head in the direction of the sudden presence, glancing off of something solid. Even though it was unlikely to have caused his attacker any pain, it was still a small victory that spurred him on. He wrenched his shoulders, contorting the chair before lashing out with his head again, only to meet empty air.

For a minute, everything was still. Clint heaved in labored breaths, waiting for the next attack.

He felt a light touch on his knee. He flinched away from it, but it moved with his leg. His breath skyrocketed toward hyperventilation. Was what happening? Where was the pain, why weren't they attacking?

The pressure increased, though it still wasn't painful. Clint couldn't understand what the point of it was; this wasn't something they had done before this moment. He focused on the sensation, realizing belatedly that it was hand that someone had placed firmly on his knee.

Why? What was the point of that?

The idea that the person who belonged to that hand didn't mean him any harm was slow to dawn on him. Carefully, he released the tension in his muscles. The hand remained firm and somewhat comforting on his knee and a second hand appeared tentatively on his shoulder. When he didn't react to it, it moved, appearing again as fingertips just below his blindfold.

When the blindfold was eased up off of his eyes, the sensory input was completely overwhelming. He sucked in a hard, labored breath around the sour gag as he struggled to take in his surroundings. The room had been dimly lit when he had been brought in, but now it was suddenly painfully bright, causing a pathetic whimper to crawl up his throat. He blinked and tried to look around him to figure out what was going on, but his eyes couldn't focus and all he could see were vague blurs around him that he couldn't piece together into anything coherent.

The gag was gone from his mouth, but he didn't remember it being untied or taken away. Had it even been there at all? Everything was spinning dangerously around him, and his brain couldn't keep up with the situation. His stomach tried to rebel, but after a few spasms it found that there was nothing to expel.

Finally, the blurred outline of a figure came into a vague sort of focus. Someone was kneeling in front of the chair where he was still restrained, looking up at him. He had the strangest feeling that he should know this person, but somehow his brain just could not make the logical leap. All he could do was stare blankly and wait for something to happen.

Movement finally caught his eye and tried desperately once again to get his mind to focus on it, his gaze instinctually going to the blurs that were likely hands. The hands moved a few times before he could really comprehend what they were doing. Two fingers were held up in a V formation with the palm facing in toward the person. The gesture was held up near the head and shifted outward. Then the hand moved down to rest the index finger on the person's chest. The two motions were repeated several times before Clint's sluggish mind finally read the signs.

" _See me."_

It took an enormous amount of energy, but Clint managed to lift his chin and then let it fall back down, as close to a nod as he was able to get.

He felt something cutting away at the restraints on one wrist and a second later he felt something else cutting away on the restraints on the other wrist. There was a second presence and the revelation caused him to flinch away in panic. Both movements stopped abruptly, and a hand was carefully placed on top of his left hand comfortingly, assuring him with the tactile contact that everything was okay.

Finally, the gesture registered as familiar and he was able to connect the feeling with a name, one that he had no idea how he could have ever forgotten.

"Phil…"

He had no idea if the word came out as any kind of coherent, but the hand patted his reassuringly as Clint forced his muscles to unclench again. He felt the rope around his left wrist snap and fall away just as the cutting sensation returned to the rope around his right wrist. A moment later that fell away too.

But even with the freedom, Clint suddenly found that he didn't have the willpower to even lift his arms, and instead just let them rest limply on the arms of the chair as he hung his head.

He was being rescued. Phil had come for him. He wasn't going to die here. The thoughts came to him slowly through a thick fog, but once they were there he hung onto them like a lifeline. It was over. It was time to go home.

He was heaved up out of the chair and he found it odd that his ankles no longer seemed to be restrained. Had they been cut? There was no time to dwell on the thought. His left arm was thrown over a set shoulder, while his right arm was thrown over a different, significantly thinner set of shoulders. He was moving, but he focused instead on that second set of shoulders. It took much longer than it should have for a name to come to him hazily out of the fog.

"Natasha…"

How ever it had come out had to at least be mostly comprehensible, as thin fingers wrapped around his right hand and squeezed it assuringly.

He wasn't sure if he had lost the ability to comprehend time or if he had fallen conscious at some point, but it seemed startlingly soon when he was lowered down onto the edge of what felt like a cot. Hands tried to help him lie down, but he put out a hand to brace himself, shaking his head. He didn't want to be put in a passive position, he needed to feel in control of something.

Suddenly, the world around him shuddered to life. He initially tensed up, but then relaxed as he recognized the comfort of the vibrations of the Quinjet starting up.

He blinked, his vision finally feeling marginally steadier. There was a shock of red in front of him, and he gave a weak smile as he recognized Natasha's presence. She was holding something out to him and he stared at it until his lethargic mind was able to comprehend that it was a pair of his civilian hearing aids.

Normally when he was injured and heading for the infirmary he wouldn't bother putting in his hearing aids, knowing that they would inevitably be taken out again for x-rays and MRIs when he got to the infirmary of the closest SHIELD base. But right now, when his senses were failing him, he needed any help that he could get to gain a firmer grasp on the situation.

He nodded his consent. Natasha carefully put an aid in one ear and then an aid in the other. She reached up, flicking them both on at the same time to avoid the disorientation of only hearing from one ear at a time.

The drone of the Quinjet – which usually chewed at his nerves on a good day – was strangely comforting. He let out a sigh of relief as he allowed his eyelids to slide closed, focusing on one sense at a time. He felt Natasha's gentle hand cup the side of his head and he reached up a hand to cover hers, leaning into the gesture.

She pitched her voice above the low drone of jet engines as she spoke the first words he had heard since his aids had been violently ripped away from him. He allowed himself to sink into the comforting sound like a security blanket.

"It's okay, Clint. We got you. You're safe now."

* * *

 **NEXT'S WEEK'S PROMPT:  
DROWNING**


	18. Drowning

**Author's Note** : Thank you so much to **Reagangirl** , **anaticulapraecantrix** , and **Katie Mac Alpine** for reviewing the last chapter! You are my heroes and the reason I'm sitting in my hotel room on vacation hoping that I'll be able to post this from my iPad! Fingers crossed!! Hope you enjoy, this chapter was one of my favorites to write!

XxXxX

 **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

 **DROWNING**

Clint had just enough time to see the other car come up alongside theirs and swerve. He already knew there was no where for them to go, already knew what would happen with the inevitable impact.

"BRACE!" he shouted to Natasha in the passenger's seat as he gripped the steering wheel, his mind already jumping ahead to what would come next and how they would survive this.

Looking back, he would remember the crunch of metal on metal as the hostile's car collided viciously with theirs. He would remember the jarring impact as their car hit the barrier of the bridge and the beginning of vertigo as their car flipped… and then there was only black.

XxXxX

Clint came awake gasping.

He was disoriented, and it took him longer than it should have to realize what was going on. He looked around, taking in the car leaning forward at a severe angle, frigid water already clawing its way up his chest. He was automatically unclipping his seatbelt as he looked across at where Natasha sat in the passenger's seat… blood running down her face and unconscious.

"Shit," he hissed.

He had just enough time to suck in a desperate breath – a much shallower breath than he would have normally taken if he had the time – before the water overtook him. He automatically kept a rough track of time in his head, knowing they had precious few minutes to make it back to the surface. Knowing Natasha hadn't taken a deep breath before the water overtook her – pushing away the panicked voice in his head that pointed out that she was likely drowning in her unconscious state – he had six minutes max to get her breathing again before he lost her.

All this passed through his head over the span of a second.

The water was murky and burned his eyes, forcing him to squeeze them shut. Moving by feel alone, he located Natasha's seatbelt and hit the release so that he wouldn't have to fumbled for it later and then immediately pushed himself to the backseat of the car. As he moved, he reached up and found Natasha's shoulder, using it to anchor him to her so that he wouldn't lose her.

10 seconds.

As soon as he hit the backseat he braced himself sideways and grabbed the handle above the door with his free hand for leverage. Then he kicked out at the window, picturing the area and trying to aim low on the side closest to the hinges of the door. On a good day, he could break a window like this with two solid kicks. Of course, today, with the water hindering his momentum, it took him four.

40 seconds.

He felt the window give way and immediately pushed himself through it, a strong grip around Natasha's forearm as he dragged her behind him. He braced his feet on the outside of the car and made sure to pull Natasha completely from the submerged vehicle, wrapping an arm around her midsection and pulling her more securely into him. Then he was kicking desperately, his lungs already protesting dully, as he shot toward the surface.

1 minute.

And hit a solid wall.

As he bounced back, panic threatening to overwhelm his survival instincts, he reached up desperately with his free hand to try and figure out what had happened. That's when it hit him. The river was frozen. His hand connected with the wall of ice three times before it became painfully obvious that he didn't have the leverage to be able to break through.

1 minute, 20 seconds.

He tried to open his eyes again, but that did him no good as he couldn't make out anything useful in the polluted water. The only thing he could do was pick a direction and hope that he either happened upon the hole made by the car crashing through the ice or he got close enough to the shore to be able to use the ground for leverage in order to break through it. All while Natasha was running out of time.

The odds were laughably against them.

But someone must have been looking over them that day. Because just thirty seconds later, his outstretched hand was hitting open air.

1 minute, 50 seconds.

He hooked his arm over the edge of the ice and hauled himself up, the frigid air burning into his lungs as he broke the surface. He pulled Natasha up next to him, bracing her upper body on the edge of the ice. For several long seconds, all he could do was breath.

2 minutes.

"Clint!"

Clint's eyes snapped up at the sound of the familiar voice. He was still turning, the cold water already slowing down his processing time, as a rope hit the ice and slid toward him. He reached out and grabbed it without recalling having a conscious thought to do so, looping it just under Natasha's arms and tying it off. It took him longer than it should have to secure the knot, his finger fumbling uncharacteristically.

2 minutes, 30 seconds.

As the rope went taut, Clint helped to ease Natasha out of the water and on to the ice. He watched blearily as Phil Coulson worked from the shore of the river, pulling the other end of the rope and carefully sliding Natasha across the ice. Finally, he was pulling her up onto solid, dry ground.

2 minutes, 50 seconds.

But to Clint's frustration, instead of keeping his attention on Natasha, Phil pulled the rope free and then turned back to the frozen river, throwing the rope back out to him. Clint knew the argument would take longer than simply complying at this point, so he reached out and grabbed the rope, wrapping it securely around one arm and using it to haul himself up out of the water and onto the ice.

3 minutes, 20 seconds.

He allowed Phil to pull him across the ice, not wanting to risk the ice not being able to hold his weight if he tried to stand up. By the time Clint was climbing up onto the shore, there was a painful tremor running through his entire body.

3 minutes, 30 seconds.

"Can you do compressions?" Phil asked immediately as he turned and laid Natasha out flat.

Instead of answering, Clint crawled over to Natasha's side and then pushed himself up onto his knees with an effort. He placed the heel of his left hand on her sternum and covered that hand with his other. There was no time for discussion, Natasha had already been down for too long. And that was assuming she was even still breathing when they went under.

Despite the fatigue he was feeling from the frozen river, his chest compressions were strong and even. However, he was grateful that Phil counted out loud for him because his head was feeling strangely fuzzy. As Phil reached thirty, Clint paused while Phil gave two rescue breaths. Then Clint continued with compressions.

Everything was fading in and out of focus. He had no idea how many rounds they did. He even lost track of how long Natasha had been under. Were they too late? Was she gone? Just the thought made his stomach churn violently.

"Clint, Clint, stop!" Phil suddenly snapped, pushing him away.

Not wanting to give up on Natasha, Clint almost lashed out at Phil before he looked down and realized that she was coughing and wheezing, desperately trying to expel the water from her lungs. How had he not noticed that? Clint's legs suddenly gave out and he was now sitting in the wet, half frozen grass on the bank of the river. Phil quickly rolled Natasha over on her side, pounding the heel of his hand against her back to help expel the rest of the water. Finally, her breathing evened out even as her body began to shiver violently.

She was alive.

Clint felt like he might pass out from relief. Or was that the hyperthermia? Because he was suddenly keenly aware of the violent shivers that were also running through his own body.

"Clint?"

Clint carefully and determinedly raised his gaze to look at Phil. His handler had already removed his coat and wrapped it around Natasha. Good. She had less body mass, she needed it more than Clint did.

"Can you make it?" Phil asked, looking at him skeptically. "We have to walk back to the safehouse. Because I have reason to believe our ride has been compromised." He sent a pointed look at the frozen river.

Clint gave a weak smile. Trust Phil to ground him with his dry sense of humor.

Yes, he could make it. He could make it, because he had to make it. Natasha still needed Phil's attention and he wouldn't be selfish enough to take that from her.

He helped Clint stumbled to his feet before Phil leaned back down and scooped Natasha up in his arms. Clint would only have fuzzy memories of trudging behind Phil back to the safehouse, holding on to Phil's sleeve to keep himself going the right direction. He only vaguely remembered walking into the safehouse… and then there was nothing.

The next thing he knew, Clint was waking up with a heavy blanket draped over him. He blinked blearily, trying to take in his surroundings but everything was coming to him slowly. He was on the floor. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace just a few feet from him. His head was pounding.

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty."

Clint shifted his head, squinting up and blinking until the red blur came into focus. One of the cots had been dragged over to the fireplace and Natasha was curled up on it, smiling down at him.

"What happened?" Clint rasped.

"We got here, and you very rudely collapsed in the doorway," came Phil's voice. Clint shifted his eyes up, straining to see Phil's approach. "For the record, you are much heavier than Natasha, which is why she gets a cot and you're on the floor."

"Are you calling me fat, Phil?" Clint asked petulantly.

Phil merely smirked as he crouched down next to him. He reached out, placing his hand on Clint's forehead. It felt warm against his cool skin.

"How do you feel?" Phil asked.

"Tired," Clint said, his eyelids already sagging.

"Yeah, well, hyperthermia will do that do you," Phil commented. "Get some rest. You've bought yourself some time since the hostiles believe you're both dead."

"Isn't that handy," Clint sighed.

Clint's eyes wandered back up to Natasha, asking silently if she was really okay. She gave him a small smile and a small, assuring nod. Her eyes gave him permission to stand down. Clint sighed in relief as he allowed himself to let go and drift back to blissful unconsciousness.

XxXxX

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:**

 **SELF-SACRIFICE**


	19. Self-Sacrifice

**Author's Note:** Thank you all so much for the reviews on the last chapter! I very much appreciate it! I unfortunately can't do my individual shout outs this week, I'm still traveling and fighting allergies the last couple days so I only have a few minutes before my Benadryl knocks me out, haha! But know that I read and appreciated every single one! You guys are fantastic and the reason I work so hard on this! Thank you!!

 **XxXxX**

 **CHAPTER NINETEEN**

 **SELF-SACRIFICE**

"Now's our window!" Clint grunted through a clenched jaw. His knuckles were bone white as he held the controls in a death-grip, visibly straining as he steered them out of the smoke from the enemy jet they had just shot down. But that wasn't before their own jet had taken critical damage. "Time to abandon ship!"

Phil was already grabbing the parachutes as Natasha was ripping off her safety harness in the copilot's seat. She reached over the seat to grab a chute from Phil, slinging it over one shoulder as she grabbed the second one and held it out to Clint. But he didn't take it. His hands remained glued to the controls.

"Barton," Natasha snapped.

"Go!" Clint snapped back. "Go, I'm right behind you!"

No… no he wasn't going to be right behind them, Natasha realized in an instant. If he let go of those controls, this Quinjet was going to plummet immediately. He was keeping the jet steady so that Phil and Natasha could escape.

"Clint--" Natasha started.

"No time!" Clint shouted, sending her a pleading look as his arms started to shake. "Now or never, Tasha. Go!"

Natasha shoved the second parachute toward him. "You better get your ass off this jet, Barton," she growled, before she was launching herself over the back of the seat.

It was so incredibly painful to leave him behind, but she knew that there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that Clint would let go of those controls until she and Phil were clear of the jet. The longer she fought that fact, the more likely it was that all three of them would die that day. The quicker she got out, the more likely it was that Clint would have time to pull off an escape of his own.

So, she ran.

Phil was already lowering the ramp of the Quinjet with one hand and shrugging into his own parachute with the other. He sent a pained look over his shoulder to where Clint was still firmly seated in the pilot's seat. She wasn't the only one that was struggling with this, but clearly Phil had come to the same conclusion about the extent of Clint's stubbornness as she had.

The ramp was still lowering but Natasha didn't break stride, heading full tilt toward open air a couple thousand feet above solid ground. She twisted as she launched herself out of the jet, still clipping her parachute safely into place even as she began her descent. The angle gave her one last look at Clint, holding on for dear life to allow Phil and Natasha to escape the inevitable fiery crash.

She could only hope that Clint would be able to pull off another one of his miracle escapes.

Natasha fell backward into empty air with Phil only a few steps behind her, his parachute already in place. Some people liked to have the safety precaution firmly in place before jumping from a jet. To each their own.

As the two of them fell free of the jet, Natasha kept her eyes on the failing craft. One turbine was on fire, sending black smoke billowing up into the clear blue sky. The fire was spreading… the Quinjet wouldn't stay airborne much longer.

"Come on, Clint," Natasha murmured under her breath as – mostly by instinct rather than conscious decision – she reached back and pulled the ripcord on her chute, sending her parachute billowing up into the sky and jerking her free fall into a controlled, floating descent. She was vaguely aware of Phil's parachute doing the same in her peripheral vision. "Come on, Clint…"

As she watched, she could distantly hear the pop, pop, pop of shots being fired… just as she saw the windshield of the jet shattering away. Her heart lifted into her throat as she saw Clint climbing out through the space where the windshield had just been, shrugging into his parachute as he went. Natasha automatically calculated what his plan had to be. The nose of the ship was already dipping drastically, and he was moving along the top of the jet. While the jet fell out of the sky, all he had to do was run along the back until it fell away from him and then pull his chute. Completely doable.

If the fire hadn't taken that moment to reach the fuel tank.

Clint was starting up the jet, but he must have known what was coming because he was already turning away when the explosion consumed the Quinjet. The force of the blast sent Clint careening wildly away as the jet was consumed by the fire.

Natasha didn't scream, didn't cry out for him as she watched with a numb detachment as he shot forward before starting a vicious decent. There was nothing her words could do for him as she helplessly watched what was unfolding before her eyes.

"He's reaching for his chute!" Phil gasped.

Natasha forgot to breathe as she saw that Phil was right. Against all odds, Clint was somehow still conscious with the presence of mind to try and survive this. After some fumbling, he yanked his ripcord and his parachute deployed. As it billowed up above him, a relieved smile melted onto Natasha's face… only to immediately fall away again as she watched Clint's parachute disconnect and float uselessly away, damaged by the explosion.

"No!" The desperate, agonized cry sounded foreign to Natasha even as it left her own lips.

But Clint's survival instincts were violently ingrained in him since he was a child. His hand was still groping back behind him until he found the cord for the backup chute. The second parachute deployed, and Natasha held her breath as it blossomed to full capacity. She let out the breath in a relieved hiss as the backup chute held and yanked Clint into a significantly slower descent.

"Thank god," Phil sighed.

But Natasha's eyes remained on Clint as she tried to assess the damage. It was hard to tell what kind of shape he was in from this distance, but she could see that his limbs had gone suddenly slack and his head was now lolling feebly on his shoulders. Best case scenario was that without the adrenaline of the free fall in his system he had fallen unconscious. Worst case scenario was the sharp jerk that stopped the descent had damaged his already wounded body, causing any number of things to go wrong – punctured organs, broken bones, internal bleeding – and he was either dying or already dead. She knew with him being that close to the fiery explosion, there was no way that he had come away from that unscathed.

They weren't out of the woods yet.

The float down to the ground was frustratingly subdued. Natasha wanted to claw her way through the empty air between them and make it to her stupid, self-sacrificing partner and see the damage. But, of course, she couldn't do that. And though she could navigate to the ground faster, that would do nothing for Clint and she would still have to wait for him to make a natural descent. All they could do was quietly let gravity do it's work as they made their way back down to earth.

Natasha and Phil were both able to land in a clearing in a wooded area with little difficulty. They didn't waste any time packing up their parachutes as they unclipped themselves and immediately started moving through the forest, carefully tracking Clint's descent.

It was by pure luck alone that Clint was heading for a clearing, which was a relief considering that the last thing they needed was to have to fish him out of a tree. Natasha and Phil carefully positioned themselves as Clint was still heading down at a good clip. When Clint finally came within reach, Phil reached up and carefully guided his legs up away from the ground and out away from his body so as not to risk a broken leg on top of everything else, bringing Clint down on his butt with both Phil and Natasha bracing him upright to save his back from hitting the ground.

It was a hard landing but it was their best option. Because it was excruciatingly obvious that his back had taken the bulk of the damage from the explosion. Natasha could see where the fire had burned through his shirt and scorched the skin of the back of his shoulder and up his neck. It was no small miracle that allowed the parachute to protect most of his back and still have been left in just enough working order to save him from plummeting to his certain death.

Without a word, Natasha carefully took on Clint's weight, leaning his upper body against her chest and bracing his head against her shoulder so that Phil could take care of the parachute. Clint's breathing was painful and shallow, but it was a relief that he was still breathing at all.

"You're lucky to be alive, you idiot," Natasha hissed as she studied the burn, a sickening churning settling into the pit of her stomach as she saw the blackened edges of the burns. Third degree burns.

Phil finished cutting away the parachute and came around to where Natasha was crouched.

"How bad is it?" he asked, his voice thin.

"Bad," Natasha answered as she leaned back so that Phil could see for himself.

"Jesus Christ," Phil hissed as he took in the extensive damage.

"What do we do?" Natasha asked, looking up at Phil with pleading in her eyes.

"There really isn't much we can do," Phil said grimly as he knelt next to her. "Those are third degree burns. He needs a hospital, antibiotics and clean bandages. We don't have any of that." He glanced up at the sky. "I got out a distress beacon before we went down. There should be a team inbound to our last known location. We should build a signal fire, so they can find us."

"It won't be long before that jet we shot down is missed," Natasha pointed out as her gaze darted toward the sky. "Someone's bound to come looking, a signal fire will give away our location, and we'll be sitting ducks down here."

"We don't have a lot of options," Phil sighed. "It's a risk we're going to have to take."

Natasha knew that he was right.

As Phil built the fire on the other side of the clearing, Natasha drew her sidearm and made sure it was loaded and still in working order. Smoke billowed up into the ky and Phil made his way back over to them his gaze carefully rove around their surroundings. Then working together, they carefully dragged Clint a few feet to be better covered by the surrounding trees. Natasha knelt next to Clint, bracing him upright against her as she held her gun in one hand and wound a protective arm around Clint with the other. She rested her fingers on the slow pulse on his neck, taking comfort in the assurance that despite how awful he looked, he was in fact still alive. Phil stood at the edge of their cover, his own sidearm drawn and his gaze searching the empty sky.

And then all they could do was settle in to wait and hope that their allies found them before their enemies.

A half an hour had passed before a jet could be heard overhead, causing both Natasha and Phil to tense and grip their weapons tighter. Natasha tracked the aircraft as it passed by far overhead while Phil took a cautious step out from under their cover to get a better look. A minute later the jet doubled back, lower this time. Natasha squinted up at it through the leaves, straining to see any identifying marks.

"It's SHIELD," Phil announced with relief just as Natasha spotted the insignia.

But as the jet started down toward the clearing, another jet could be heard screaming through the sky.

"Shit," Natasha spat. SHIELD wouldn't send two jets for a rescue mission.

"Let's get him up," Phil said tensely.

They worked together to hoist the still unconscious Clint between them, heading toward the still landing jet as quickly as they could. Just as the ramp to the Quinjet lowered, gunfire tore up the ground just behind them.

"Go, go, go!" Phil urged the crew as soon as their feet hit the ramp.

Natasha let out a relieved breath as the ramp closed securely behind them and she heard the return fire from their own jet as they took off.

Natasha and Phil immediately headed to one side of the jet where a cot was situated just for situations like this.

"Medic!" Phil called as they carefully lowered Clint onto his stomach on the cot.

"What's the damage?" the medic asked as she hurried over.

"Third degree burns," Phil told her grimly. He looked at Natasha. "Stay with him. I'm going to help the team navigate through this mess."

It was only after Natasha nodded assuringly that Phil sent one more worried glance toward Clint before he turned and headed for the cockpit.

As the medic went to work cutting away Clint's uniform, Natasha sunk to her knees next to the cot at Clint's head. She sighed heavily, letting the adrenaline drain out of her as she carefully watched over her partner.

Right about the time that the medic was applying antibiotics, Clint started to stir. His eyes fluttered blearily, and Natasha could see the building panic before he glanced over, and his gaze landed on her.

"Am I… still 'live?" Clint mumbled.

"Against all odds, yes you are," Natasha assured him as she huffed a humorless laugh. "You know, one of these days you're going to run out of unlikely miracles, Clint."

Natasha was vaguely surprised when he responded to her, impressed that his hearing aids had apparently made it through the ordeal. Apparently SHIELD was getting better at building sturdier aids that could better withstand Clint's job.

"Good thin'… tha' wasn't t'day," Clint slurred with a smirk, even as his eyes were sliding shut again.

Natasha smiled despite herself as she reached down and placed a comforting hand on Clint's head.

"Yeah. Damn good thing, Clint."

 **XxXxX**

 **CHAPTER TWENTY**

 **ON THEIR KNEES**


	20. On Their Knees

**Author's Note:** And I'm home again! Which will make my updating much easier haha! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last two chapters, it was such a nice perk to get your reviews while I was traveling! For Chapter 18: **Katie MacAlpine** ; **BrokenKestral** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **aurea-sidera** ; **Lesfont25** ; **white collar black wolf** ; and **anaticulapraecantrix** and for Chapter 19: **Guest** ; **Guest Michelle** ; **white collar black wolf** and **anaticulapraecantrix**! You guys are awesome!

 _Disclaimer_ : We get a little religious in this chapter. I tried to be very tactful about how to address this and tried to realistically imagine how Clint would view the practice and leave my own beliefs out of it. So I'm a little nervous about this one, hopefully this comes across okay!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY  
ON THEIR KNEES**

"Where is she?" Clint demanded as he slammed his way into the infirmary.

"You can't go back there," Phil tried as he stepped into Clint's path. But Clint didn't so much as hesitate as he stormed passed Phil, shoving his handler out of his way when he tried to physically restrain him.

Clint would tear apart this entire infirmary to find her.

"Goddamnit, Clint, just stop for a second!"

Clint was suddenly bodily slammed up against the wall and pinned, his blind rage and single-mindedness the only reason that Phil was able to get the best of him in that moment.

"Stop!" Phil said sharply. "Just listen to me for a minute."

"I told you!" Clint shouted, shoving Phil back and turning his rage on his handler. "I fucking _told_ you that we shouldn't be sent on separate missions! I shoulda been there, I shoulda had her back!"

"Clint!" Phil snapped. "There's nothing you could have done."

"Bullshit!"

"Shut up!" Phil's tone was sharp as a knife, and Clint couldn't help but flinch a bit. Then Phil dropped his voice low, knowing that without his field hearing aids Clint struggled with low noises, therefore he was more likely to pay closer attention. "Natasha was deep undercover. Had you been there, you would have been watching from a distance, you wouldn't have been in the building when the biological weapon went off. There's nothing you could have done to stop it."

"I coulda seen it coming," Clint practically hissed.

"Even you couldn't have seen this one coming, kid," Phil said, pain in his expression.

Clint swallowed thickly, feeling a pit opening up in his stomach.

"Where is she?" The question held none of the volume and rage that it had just minutes before. Instead it was said with a quiet pleading.

"C'mon, kid," Phil said gently, leading Clint to the back of the infirmary.

As Clint moved, he felt like his boots were suddenly filled with concrete, his mind still reeling to catch up with the situation. It wasn't until they stopped in front of the large viewing window to the quarantine room that it really crashed over him.

"You can't go in," Phil explained apologetically. "The virus that infected her is highly contagious. Only doctors in biohazard suits can safely enter the room."

Natasha Romanoff was alone in the room, lying completely still on the hospital bed, deathly pale with a sheen of sweating shining on her porcelain skin. Her eyes were closed, and she was intubated with a breathing tube down her throat, a machine at her bedside breathing for her. There were IVs and wires monitoring her and trying to keep her alive.

Clint reached out, bracing his open hand on the window and feeling as though the world might fall out from under him at any moment. He was barely aware of the doctor approaching them.

"How is she holding up?" Phil asked softly.

"No change," the doctor responded somberly. "The only thing that I can say right now is while she's not getting better, she's also not getting any worse."

"What can we do?" Clint demanded, turning to the doctor.

"We've done everything that we can," the doctor told him calmly, but his expression was apologetic. "There is no known cure for this biological weapon, it's a completely new type of virus. We've given her medicine to control her symptoms and give her a fighting chance, but really…" He shifted his gaze to the window. "It's up to her."

Clint shook his head, hardly comprehending what the man was telling him. "No. That can't be it, there has to be something else that we can do for her."

The doctor turned to Clint meeting his gaze with sympathy in his eyes.

"Pray," he said simply. Then he turned and walked away, granting them privacy.

Clint snorted derisively as he glared after the man. "Fucking quack. What's he gonna try next, fairy dust?"

"He just means that medically they've done everything humanly possible," Phil explained gently. "And some people take comfort in the idea that when all else fails there might be a higher power looking over us."

"If a higher power could fix this, wouldn't a higher power also have been able to prevent it from happening in the first place?" Clint practically growled.

"I'm not debating religion with you at a time like this," Phil said, holding his hands up in a quiet surrender. "I just wanted you to know where he was coming from."

Clint rolled his eyes but didn't comment further. Instead, he turned back to the window, bracing both hands on the sill as he looked to Natasha. She had not moved, the only sign of life was the mechanical rise and fall of her chest that was a product of the breathing machine and the slow, off kilter beep of the heart monitor.

 _C'mon, Natasha,_ Clint silently tried to convey to his unconscious partner. _You can't leave me like this. You're the strongest person I know, you have to beat this. You_ have _to._

Clint Barton was an assassin by trade, but first and foremost he was a sniper. He was trained to be still for hours at a time. So, when he straightened up and settled back on his heels, his consciousness sunk easily into nesting mode. He remained perfectly still, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze sharp, taking in everything at once. He wanted to know the moment there was any change.

Time passed by agonizingly slowly.

"Clint?"

Clint gave no reaction hours later as the voice filtered in to his consciousness.

"Clint. It's been almost three hours. We won't know anything for several more hours at least. Don't you want to get some rest?"

Clint was aware of Phil coming up into his peripheral vision, but he still didn't waste any energy answering what he felt to be an asinine question. He heard Phil's heavy sigh of defeat.

"Okay. But could you at least step away from the door? You're making the nurses nervous to even approach the room."

At that, Clint shifted his gaze to the door of the quarantine room that was just to his left. Then he turned his head slightly so that he could see down the hallway, noticing a group of nurses hovering down the end of the hallway who all flinched when his gaze locked on them.

They were hesitating.

With an effort, Clint dropped his arms and took several generous steps away from the door but remained in view of the window to the room. A moment later, two nurses came scurrying down the hallway and ducked into the clean room between the quarantine room and the hallway, to start assembling their biohazard suits so they could check Natasha's vitals.

After that, Clint was careful to keep his distance, not wanting to get in the way of Natasha's care. While he could stay still for hours at a time, once he was in motion, he tended to stay in motion. He spent the rest of the night pacing restlessly around the hallway, never leaving sight of the quarantine room.

It was the early hours of the morning before the doctor returned to check on Natasha's condition. Clint returned to the window, watching the exam critically.

As the doctor finally exited the clean room after the sanitation process, Clint took one look at the man and felt a numbing fog drifting in to his brain. He could see clear as day that the doctor was not going to deliver good news.

"She was holding steady, but about four hours ago my nurses started to record a steady decrease in her vitals," the doctor reported stoically. "We maxed out the medications that had managed to stabilize her hours ago, increasing it any more will likely be a lethal dose. There isn't anything more we can do for her and her body has stopped fighting back. At this point, it's very unlikely that Agent Romanoff will make a recovery. If there are any affairs that need to be in order before she passes, we should…"

The doctor was still talking when Clint turned and walked away.

He couldn't handle this. He couldn't handle any more sympathetic looks from Phil. He couldn't handle standing by and watching Natasha die. He was a man of action and didn't do bedside vigils. But when there was no action to be taken, what exactly was he supposed to do?

He left the infirmary behind and started walking through the base. He had no particular destination in mind, just the urgent need to get away from the situation before it completely crushed him with the weight of it.

In an effort to avoid high traffic areas, he ended up in a quiet corner of the base, an area he didn't normally venture. He lifted his gaze and spotted a door, looking at it curiously as he didn't immediately recognize where he had ended up. It was slow to dawn on him that the door in front of him led to the base's chapel.

Organized religion wasn't particularly endorsed by SHIELD, but they still provided the space for people who felt inclined to hold on to that part of their lives when they joined the organization. As far as Clint knew, there weren't any actual services held there – SHIELD didn't exactly have a need to employ priests – but rather it functioned as a quiet place where people could go to observe their own individual beliefs.

Clint stood there and stared blankly at the door for a minute. In his eleven years with SHIELD, he had never been in that room. It was quite possibly the only room on the entire base he had never been in. As he carefully stepped forward, he reminded himself that he was simply looking for a quiet place to be alone with his thoughts, to pull himself together. After all… it was just a room.

Still, as he moved forward he found that he eased the door open cautiously, wary of what he was going to find on the other side. He had never once set foot in a church or chapel. His father hadn't had time between beating up on him and beating up on his mother and brother to incorporate religion into his childhood. In fact, Clint was completely oblivious to the concept of religion until he was eleven years old. And by that point, the idea of an invisible man in the sky that controlled the events of the world just seemed like a silly story to him.

Because if there was really a god who had control over his life, why did he have to go through so much pain and suffering in his short eleven years on this earth?

The room was simple. There were a handful of pews lined up on either side of the room, all facing an altar set up on a small stage-like structure at the front of the room. On the altar were three small, simple wooden carvings: a cross, a Star of David and a Star and Crescent. SHIELD's attempt to adhere to diversity.

He walked into the room carefully. It was dimly lit, casting large shadows at the edges of the room, something that put Clint a little on edge. The shadows were a perfect hiding place for an ambush. Clint shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts. He was in a chapel on a SHIELD base, not out on a mission. Some habits were hard to ignore though.

He walked along the isle between the pews and slid into the second pew from the front. For a while he just sat there, letting the dismal thoughts swirl around in his head. All the fight had left him at some point though and now he just felt drained and tired. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he slowly pushed himself forward in the pew until his knees met the floor and he braced his arms on the back of the pew in front of him, folding one over the other.

He knelt there in silence for a long time. Then, without remembering a conscious decision to do so, he started to speak.

"I dunno if anyone is listening," he said quietly. His eyes skimmed across the three different religious symbols at the front of the room. "I don't even know who I'm trying to talk to. But some people find comfort in this, I guess. So here we go."

He paused, unsure how to continue. How was one supposed to communicate with a supposed omnipresent, omniscient being? He shifted uncomfortably.

"I've never wasted much time thinking about religion or why we're here or where we go when we die or any of that shit. But… if there is a god… if there really is something or someone that's supposed to be looking over us… I think you fucking owe me one at this point. Just _one_ win in this godforsaken life you gave me. Because if you're there, you gave me an abusive father who couldn't just kill himself, he had to take my mother with him."

His voice caught in this throat, choking him for a moment before he forced himself to continue.

"I was put in two abusive homes before I found a good one with good people. But just when I thought we might have found a place you just had to take that foster mother too, didn't you? There was another abusive home before we ran and found the carnival. Six good years there… but that had to be taken from me too, didn't it?"

He took in a shuddering breath.

"Maybe SHIELD is your way to try and make up for that. This place has become my home the last eleven years, it's given me a purpose in life and a chance to do good in this world. But if that's the case, if this is supposed to be your win for me… you can take it. You can take it away if it means that Natasha get to live. Because I can't handle losing anyone else. You hear me? I can't lose Natasha."

He hung his head and the final word came out so quiet and broken, Clint himself barely heard it.

" _Please_."

He rested his forehead on his folded arms as he wrapped the silence around himself like a security blanket. He didn't speak again. He remained kneeling, just existing as the moments slid past him.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he drifted off into a deep sleep, his exhaustion of the past few days finally getting the better of him.

He woke in a blind panic, his heart practically bursting out of his chest as he sprung to his feet, his eyes searching frantically for the threat that had awoken him. He was disoriented, taking several long seconds to figure out exactly where he was. Finally, the dim lighting of the chapel came into focus. After taking a moment to ground himself back in reality, he shifted his gaze to Phil, who was standing in the isle between the pews, looking at him in confusion.

"I've been looking all over for you," Phil said in a respectful undertone. He glanced around the room, as if he had to remind himself where they were. "What were you doing in here?"

"Just… needed a quiet place to think," Clint said with a shrug. "No one ever comes in here."

"Yeah, this room doesn't get used as much as it probably should," Phil said.

"How long was I gone?" Clint asked.

Phil glanced down at his watch. "Over eight hours." Clint started in surprise at that. "C'mon. I need to show you something."

Clint didn't bother questioning him as he followed him back out of the chapel. He had to blink against the bright light in the hallway as his eyes struggled to adjust. Clint followed Phil back through the base and was unsurprised when they arrived back at the infirmary. If eight hours had passed since the doctor had told them Natasha wasn't going to recover, it was probably time to say goodbye.

He suddenly felt an immense guilt crash over him. He hadn't planned to be gone that long, he really hadn't. He had just needed some space. He should have been here for Natasha, even if he couldn't be in the same room, he still should have—

His thoughts cut off abruptly as they approached the quarantine room and he looked through the window.

There was a doctor in the room with a biohazard suit standing next to the hospital bed. Clint was slow to comprehend the rest of the sight in the room. The top of the hospital bed was tilted up… and Natasha sat in it, no longer on the respirator, appearing awake and aware and for all the world like she hadn't been on death's door just hours before.

"What…?" Clint murmured, unable to complete a thought.

Phil smiled at him. "About six hours ago her vitals started to improve. The doctors have no idea why or what changed. They continued to improve over the next few hours and then she bounced back so suddenly that she came around while still on the vent. That was about two hours ago. They removed the vent and her fever is finally breaking. From what they can tell, her body is finally expelling the virus and she's expected to make a full recovery." He placed a hand on Clint's shoulder. "They're calling it nothing short of a miracle."

"Yeah…" Clint said a little unsteadily, struggling to reconcile the sudden turn of events as he stared through the window at Natasha chatting almost casually with the doctor. "A miracle."

His eyes wandered slightly upward. Six hours ago, he had been on his knees in that chapel, speaking to a being that he wasn't convinced even existed. Was it a coincidence? Or something more? Even over the next few days as he watched Natasha make a full recovery from what should have been certain death, he would never really be sure.

Maybe – just _maybe_ – there was something more out there.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
SHOULDER TO CRY ON**


	21. Shoulder to Cry On

**Author's** **Note:** Hello! I'm so excited that we've finally made it here! Special shout outs to **Katie MacAlpine** ; **BlooAngels** ; and **anaticulapraecantrix** for taking the time to review the last chapter! It really means a lot to me and I appreciate the crap out of you three for being so consistent with your support of this story! You guys are awesome!

Okay, friends, brace yourselves for this chapter. You've been warned!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE  
** **SHOULDER TO CRY ON**

"Heading out?"

Natasha glanced over at Steve who was sitting at the table in the designated kitchen area. The upper floors of Stark Tower were still under construction to fix the damage from the battle with the Chitauri. Stark had retrograded a few of the lower levels of the Tower to temporarily house the Avengers… or at least what was left of them. Thor had returned to Asgard with Loki just after the battle. And Clint… Clint had disappeared shortly after that. For the moment, the building was serving as a shelter for only Natasha, Steve and Bruce in addition to Stark and Pepper.

"Yeah," Natasha said. "Just going to get some air."

Steve nodded, but he had a knowing look in his eye. "Still looking for him?" The question was posed with a gentle sympathy.

"He'll show back up when he's ready," Natasha said, more out of habit than anything.

It had been three weeks since she had last heard from Clint. It wasn't the longest he had spent off the grid… but it was the longest he had gone without so much as dropping her a cryptic message to let her know that he was okay.

She was officially worried about him.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Steve asked, putting down the newspaper that he had been perusing – some habits die hard – and leaning forward in his seat.

"Thanks, but that's okay," Natasha said with a small appreciative smile.

It was a nice sentiment, but she knew that Clint was fragile right now, more fragile than she had ever seen him before. If she wanted a prayer of contact with him, she knew she had to go it alone.

Steve nodded solemnly. "I hope you find him."

"Me too," Natasha said quietly to herself as she headed out of the Tower.

The city was still a mess, but the people had come together to start to put the pieces back together. Natasha drove the car she borrowed from Stark carefully through the still battle torn streets of New York City. More than once she had to mount the curb to get around extra large debris or holes in the concrete. But she did all this automatically as she followed what was now a familiar and least obstructed route.

She made her way out of the city and as she left the destruction behind she felt as if she could breathe deeply again. The weight of the battle still hung heavily in the air within the city, a constant reminder of how close they had come to losing everything. The feeling of relief didn't last though. It was only a minor reprieve, which dissipated as she approached the cemetery.

They hadn't lost everything, but that didn't diminish the significance of what they did lose.

She parked the car on the side of the road and carefully climbed the fence into the graveyard. Something about walking through the front gate just didn't appeal to her. She felt more at ease under the radar, even when it was likely no one was even glancing at the radar right now. She was paranoid like that. But more importantly, so was Clint.

It was ironically peaceful as she made her way through the grass to the now familiar spot. The dew was just beginning to evaporate in the sunlight just peeking over the horizon, making the air smell clean and crisp. Birds were just starting to stir in the surrounding trees, humming sleepily in the morning light. It was a stark contrast to the gloomy mood that hung heavily over Natasha as she moved between the headstones.

Natasha settled herself under her usual tree that was set a strategic distance away from a certain fresh grave marker. It wasn't that she thought that Clint wouldn't see her if – _when_ – he decided to show up. It was that she wanted to respect his space, knowing that his grief was a very personal thing. She would only be allowed in if invited and if she tried to crowd him it would only drive him away again. It was also the reason why she wasn't out scavenging the planet searching for her missing partner. He had run away from them – from _her_ , a fact that despite everything still stung – for a reason and she was doing her best to respect that.

Though she was finally starting to wonder how much time was too much. Another week of radio silence and she wasn't so sure she'd be able to help herself anymore.

She had been coming here every day since the funeral, which Clint did not attend. That hadn't surprised her. Clint had taken the news hard; much harder than even she had anticipated. And she had anticipated a lot. Phil Coulson had recruited Clint into SHIELD with he was just eighteen-years-old and had been Clint's handler for over twelve years. During that time, the two had formed a brotherly bond, one that was incredibly important to Clint, especially after how he had been treated by his biological brother.

And Natasha was now very worried that losing Phil was going to be the final breaking point for Clint.

She did know one thing for sure though… if – _when_ – he did finally come back, this would be his first stop. So, here she sat.

The majority of the day passed without incident, painfully like all the previous days she had spent here. In fact, the sun was dipping low in the sky and she was contemplating taking her leave when she spotted the figure. People had been in and out of the cemetery all day, but this figure, even before Natasha got a good look at him, she knew him immediately.

It was Clint.

She watched him shuffle carefully between the rows of gravestones, his head bowed and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His downward gaze flitted over the engraved names on each stone he passed. As he got closer, she could see that he hadn't shaved in several days and his shoulders were slumped as if he didn't have the energy to hold them up anymore.

Her heart ached at the sight of him.

Natasha slowly pushed herself up until she was standing at full height. Clint's eyes never went to her, but there was no doubt that he knew that she was there.

Finally, he arrived at the stone that Natasha knew to have Phil Coulson's name carved in it, one that she herself had spent many days studying. Everything about Clint stilled at the sight. To a passerby at a glance, he may have looked like just another stone statue overlooking the headstones in mourning.

He stayed frozen in place for several long minutes before he slowly lowered himself into a crouch in front of the stone. After settling himself on his haunches, he mechanically reached out one hand and placed his fingertips gingerly on top of the headstone almost as if it were a fragile thing that was likely to break. He stared down at the name of his oldest friend and brother in arms carved into that stone for a few long moments before he dropped his gaze and bowed his head.

He remained like that for a long time. The only evidence that time continued to pass was the sun sinking lower into the horizon.

At long last, Clint lifted his head and glanced at Natasha, shifting his head slightly to indicate that she could approach. Relief washed over her at the invitation as she carefully crossed the distance between them at a measured pace.

It was like a knife to the gut to see him like this, appearing so small and lost. Clint Barton had always been one of the strongest people that Natasha had ever met. He had rescued her from a life that had been killing her, had saved her in so many ways. And the fact that she couldn't save him from this was almost as painful as losing Phil, who had become as good as family to her as well over the years.

She was silent as she approached, and Clint made no effort to acknowledge her presence any further. She stood awkwardly above him for a moment, unsure what she should do. This was completely new territory for her.

Slowly, she crouched down next to him, mindful to not invade his personal space. Her eyes fell on the now familiar lettering stamped into the stone. God, it made it feel so real, made it hurt so much more.

And she knew that it was worse for Clint.

"I'm so sorry," she finally said quietly. The sentiment seemed wildly inadequate, but it was all that she had to offer him.

Clint's shoulders stiffened as his hand rolled into a fist on top of the grave marker.

"It should've been me." His voice was small and hoarse, cracking halfway through the statement.

"If it had been, then Phil would have been left to feel this pain," Natasha pointed out gently. "And it'd be him kneeling here, wishing to trade places with you." Clint's gaze stayed pinned on the headstone, no indication that he was actually listening to her. She sighed heavily. "Your life doesn't have to stop here. Phil wouldn't have wanted that. He would have wanted you to continue helping people, continue doing good in this world." She paused. "He was so damn proud of you, Clint."

Clint hung his head, squeezing his eyes shut as if he were in physical pain.

"This is my fault."

"No," Natasha said sharply, her heart twisting in her chest at the statement. "None of this was your fault, Clint. I stand by what I said before. This was monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for, remember? This was Loki. The fault is with him and no one else. Least of all, you."

She could sense that he was still too shell-shocked to really absorb what she was saying. But she vowed to remind him of that fact every single day until he finally believed her.

It was a long time before he spoke again.

"What if… what if I can't be who he wanted me to be without him here?" Clint mumbled almost as if he were speaking to himself.

Natasha took a risk, reaching out and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Clint lifted his head and finally looked at her, a single tear streaking down his cheek, closely followed by another.

Never once in the over eight years that she had known him had she ever seen him even come close to crying. No more tears fell, but it still showed just how broken losing Phil had left him.

"Of course, you can be," Natasha assured him quietly. "All Phil's lessons, everything that he taught you, it doesn't all just disappear without him. He lives on through you, Clint."

Clint snorted at the admittedly cheesy sentiment, but there was just a glimpse of gratitude in his eyes.

"It's going to hurt Clint," she went on steadily, meeting his gaze. Because she knew exactly what he was doing when he had fled after finding out that Phil had died at Loki's hand. "But you have to let it hurt in order to get passed this. You can't just bury your emotions and hope it goes away, you have to deal with it."

Clint dropped his gaze and took in a shuddering breath. Natasha suddenly had doubt that any of her words were getting through to him at all. But then he reached out toward her, anchoring his free hand on her shoulder. Natasha's balance remained steady as she took on the extra weight of his grief. It was at that moment that a firm resolve took hold of her.

She would carry him through this.

After a minute of crouching there with one hand on her and one hand on Phil's headstone, Clint finally removed his hand from the stone as he turned toward her. Neither of them were much for physical affection, but it still felt natural for her to wrap an arm around him as he braced his forehead on her shoulder.

Natasha's gaze fell once again to the name on the headstone. _I've got him,_ she silently promised to the stone that bore Phil Coulson's name. _You can rest easy now. I've got him._

She couldn't protect Clint from this, but she would damn sure see him through it. It would be a long and trying journey for both of them as they faced down demons they had long forgotten or never even knew they had. But she was determined to bring them both out the other side. Because there was only one thing that was agonizingly certain after losing someone who meant so much to you.

Life marched on.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So there it is! That was a rough one to write. But it's time for Clint to move into the next section of his life as an Avenger. And before you ask, no, Phil will not be resurrected in this story. The idea that I could bring him back like they do on Agents of SHIELD actually didn't occur to me until I was doing my final proof of this chapter. But I may write a separate one shot of how that reunion would go someday!

Please don't forget to review and let me know what you think!

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT**  
 **THREATS**


	22. Threats

**Author Note:** Wow! I'm really humbled by all the feedback that I got on the last chapter! It was a tough one to write, so I'm so glad that it was appreciated so much! Thank you to **Reagangirl** ; **Guest** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **BrokenKestral** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **YoungPrinceLou** ; and **anaticulapraecantrix** for taking the time to leave a review! You all are amazing! Thank you so much!

We are now transitioning into the Avengers portion of this story. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO  
** **THREATS**

It was a subdued day in the Tower. Stark's renovations were still ongoing – perhaps to a bit of an excessive level in Steve's opinion – but there were finally a few floors of useable common space for the occupants. Despite the fact that there was still an awkward distance that hung in the air between everyone currently living in the Tower, most of them had started drifting more toward the common spaces. All five individuals currently living here had banded together to save the world just weeks ago, but in the aftermath it was still unclear what they were supposed to be to one another.

Even though these days it was becoming common to find themselves occupying one of the big living rooms that took up a whole floor in the Tower, as usual there wasn't much in the way of conversation. Steve sat on the couch and was idly pursuing a history textbook Stark had given him as a part of an elaborate joke that Steve hadn't quite followed. But he had kept the book because he was honestly still trying to catch up with everything he missed. Stark had taken over a nearby table and was tinkering with something or other as he always did, never able to sit still. Banner was still hiding down in one of the labs, still not one to spend much time with the group just yet. And Barton had taken over the bar area with his archery equipment, quietly doing some maintenance on his bow.

Steve kept on glancing over at Barton, still unsure what to really make of that particular situation. After the incident in New York, Barton had taken off without a word. No one heard from him for weeks, not even Romanoff. Then out of the blue, Romanoff had shown back up at the Tower with Barton in tow. He had quietly moved in to the room that Stark had set aside for him and there had been no discussions as to where he had been.

In the quiet of the floor – the only real noise the clinking of Stark and Barton's tools – elevator's ping accompanied by the metal door sliding open sounded unusually loud. Steve glanced over in time to see Romanoff sweeping into the room. Steve had to do a double take as he noticed the scowl that had settled in on her features as a low anger radiated off her. Something was wrong. She didn't so much as glance at Steve or Stark as she strode across the room, making a bee-line for where Barton sat.

"Have you been ignoring Fury's calls?" Romanoff demanded bluntly.

Barton didn't even look up from his task. "No," he said simply.

Romanoff crossed her arms over her chest as she glared daggers into the side of the archer's head. It was a look that made Steve cringe, and the look wasn't even aimed at him. But Barton, for all the world, seemed unaffected.

However, after a pause, he did continue. "Can't ignore calls when you no longer have a phone. Pretty sure I left it at the bottom of a lake in Vermont."

Romanoff sighed heavily but didn't appear surprised.

"Well, fair warning that Fury is losing the battle to keep the Council from sending a tac team to haul your ass in for debriefing," she informed him stiffly. "I'd say you have another day at most."

"Honestly, I'm shocked that he was able to hold them off this long," Barton commented, his eyes still steadily on his work, his hands never pausing. "I mean, I've been back a whole three days."

Romanoff had seemingly had enough. She reached out and firmly smacked an open palm across the side of Barton's head, causing him to finally drop the bow that he was working on and flinch bodily away from her. Then she was speaking so rapidly, that it took Steve several long moments of staring at the scene before he realized she was no longer speaking English.

"Jesus, Nat, calm down," Barton practically yelped, putting his hands up and ducking away from her as if afraid of another blow.

"Um," Stark finally spoke up, openly staring at the two. "What's happening?"

"Barton is not taking this seriously," Romanoff practically growled, her glare still pinned on the archer.

"If SHIELD needs a debriefing, it's probably best to just get it over with," Steve suggested carefully as he gently closed the book in his hands.

"That's the last thing he should do," Romanoff snapped.

Steve gave a start at that. "What?" he said, confused. He pushed himself to his feet as he made his way over to the two of them. "Then what are we talking about?"

"We are talking about Clint getting the hell out of here before the Council tracks him down," Romanoff said, as if that fact should be obvious.

"Weren't _you_ the one who dragged me back here?" Barton asked as he eyed her warily.

"Back _here_ , not back to SHIELD," Romanoff pointed out.

"Don't you two _work_ for SHIELD?" Stark asked, the confusion in his features mirroring Steve's. He had stood up from his own seat but hadn't gone so far as to approach the group.

"Just because we work for SHIELD doesn't mean we trust SHIELD," Romanoff stated.

Stark just blinked blankly at that.

"How does that work?" Steve asked, honestly curious. "How can you work for an organization that you don't trust?"

"An organization is just a group of people, Rogers," Romanoff pointed out. "And when you get a large group of people together, you're never going to be able to trust all of them. But we trust Fury. And he's had enough pull so far that that's been enough for us."

Steve nodded. He supposed that made sense.

"But you don't trust the Council," he said, mostly to be sure they were all on the same page.

"You might recall the nuke that was meant to level Manhattan," Natasha said dryly.

"Vaguely," Stark muttered, his eyes clouding over.

"That was the Council's call," she said. "That's what kind of decisions they make, if they don't see a simple solution they'd rather just blow up the entire problem, casualties be damned. Add in the fact that Clint already wasn't their favorite person before all this went down… and you can bet that they're going to be out for blood. They'll readily crucify him over this without a second thought and sleep like babies that night."

"Are we talking about a metaphorical crucifixion or literal?" Stark asked dryly. "Because honestly, I could see it going either way at this point."

Romanoff merely glared at him and Stark held up his hands in a gesture of mild surrender.

"Okay, so how do we handle this?" Steve asked, ready to take action.

" _We_ don't handle anything," Barton suddenly spoke up, his gaze defiant as he stood. "This is my fight. I'm not going to live my life on the run from SHIELD, so I'll go deal with the Council."

Everyone turned to him in surprised, almost as if they had completely forgotten that he was there.

"You don't have to handle this alone, Barton," Steve pointed out.

"It's my mess, Cap," Barton said. His expression was always so carefully neutral, but for just a moment Steve thought he saw sadness in his eyes. "I'll clean it up."

"None of what happened was your fault," Steve said, surprised he even had to point that out. "Anything that happened, it was all Loki."

"Somehow I don't think the Council is going to see it that way," Barton said with a self-deprecating smirk.

"I'm going with you," Romanoff said, locking him with a gaze that dared him to try and argue with her.

"I am too," Steve said. After all, after all they had been through it felt like the least that he could do.

They all looked at Stark expectantly.

"Hm," Stark hummed. "Let's see, spend the afternoon arguing with the people who's fault it was I almost died sending their nuke into space? Or stay here and bond with Banner?" He smirked. "I think you guys can handle it."

Steve rolled his eyes, but he supposed he really couldn't blame Stark for not wanting to face the people who almost killed him.

Barton gave a wary sigh of someone about to walk down a dark alley on the sketchy side of town.

"Well, guess we're going on a field trip," Barton said flatly.

* * *

The trip to the New York SHIELD base upstate was painfully quiet. Romanoff drove while Barton had insisted on lounging in the backseat, leaving Steve with the front passenger's seat. Not at word was spoken, Steve following Romanoff's lead of not discussing what they were walking into, even though he desperately wanted to.

Steve hadn't been to this base before, and as they passed through the security gate and drove up to the facility he found himself a bit mesmerized by the sheer size of the facility. They drove by several groups of recruits in the midst of training exercises in the yard, reminding Steve a lot of the base he himself had trained on.

"Is this your home base?" Steve asked curiously as they pulled into the facility's garage.

He had honestly expected the answer to come from Romanoff, but surprisingly it was Barton who spoke up.

"It used to be."

Romanoff parked the car and the three of them trooped into the base. Barton led the way and Natasha fell into a natural step just behind his right shoulder. Steve felt a little awkward as he trailed behind the two as they confidently navigated the labyrinth of hallways, crowds parting at just the sight of them. There were several open stares and scowls directed at Barton as they passed, but neither him nor Romanoff missed a step. They were very obviously in their element in this place. Steve suddenly wondered if he should have come here or if he was intruding on something that wasn't meant for him.

They arrived in a large room with five large screens lined up at one end. Fury was waiting for them.

"Well, I'm surprised to see you walking in here of your own free will, Barton," Fury said, eyeing him almost suspiciously.

"Yeah, well, I got tired doing things against my will," Barton said dryly.

Steve wasn't sure if he imagined it, but it seemed like Fury's gaze softened just a little.

"I see you brought back up," Fury observed, nodding at Steve and Romanoff standing behind him.

"Couldn't manage to shake them," Barton said with a shrug.

Fury regarded them for a moment before turning back to Barton.

"Before we get started, I want you to know that you have my full support," he said evenly. "What happened was _not_ on you. If I have anything to say about it, you will not be held responsible."

"You and I both know that's a big ' _if_ ' when it comes to the Council, Director," Barton said, locking Fury with a sharp gaze.

Fury sighed heavily. "Yeah, I know."

"Well, let's get this over with," Barton said, resigned as he turned to face the screens.

Barton straightened his shoulders, standing almost painfully straight as Fury hit a series on buttons on a nearby computer. Steve studied Barton, noting that he was standing in a strange combination of parade rest – with his hands folded behind his back and his feet apart – and standing at attention, his spine ramrod straight and his shoulders tensed.

The screens at the front of the room glowed to life, revealing a shadowed figure on each of the five screens, looking down at them. Even though it was difficult to make out their features, it was obvious that none of them were particularly happy to see who was gathered before them.

"Good afternoon, Council," Fury greeted stiffly. "Agent Barton is here for his requested debrief."

"We've been trying to get a hold of you for several days, Agent Barton," the man shadowed on the middle screen said.

"No bars on my cell phone," Barton said with a slight shrug of one shoulder.

Several Council members snorted derisively at that.

"I see your attitude hasn't improved at all," a female voice stated.

"Can't say it has," Barton agreed shortly. There was a pause. "Any chance we might hurry this along?"

"This was meant to be a _private_ debriefing," another male Council member spoke up.

"Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers are here by Agent Barton's request," Fury spoke up. "They are both authorized to hear this conversation. Now, I must echo Agent Barton's request to get to it. Some of us have an organization to run, Council."

There was some offended shuffling on the screens.

"Agent Barton, we have countless witnesses that confirm you led the attack on the Helicarrier that allowed for the escape of the prisoner Loki," the man on the middle screen stated. "The nature of the attack indicates an intimate knowledge of the inner workings of not only the Helicarrier, but SHIELD itself. We cannot let that pass without consequences."

"It has already been explained _several times_ that Agent Barton's mind was not his own while he was working with Loki," Fury all but snapped. "He was under the Asgardian's control and cannot be held responsible for his actions during that time."

"Many good men and women were killed in that attack," another male Council member said. "Agent Barton, do you remember that? Do you remember the people that you killed while in Loki's employ?"

Clint stiffened significantly at that, so much that the action was almost a flinch. There was a long beat of ringing silence following the question.

"I have no clear memories of my time under Loki's control," Barton finally said, his voice so tight it was almost painful. "I viewed everything through a fog and from a distance. Some moments are clearer than others, but mostly I just have glimpses of the things that I did." His eyes went to each individual Council member in turn. "I recognize that we lost good people in that attack. And even though I had no control over my actions, I still grieve for the part that I played in that."

"Blame for those that we lost lies with Loki and Loki alone," Fury interjected. "And he is paying for his crimes."

"So, you say," the female Council member scoffed. "He was taken by his brother to another planet. How can we know that he will receive proper retributions for his actions here on Earth?"

"That is a completely different issue that has nothing to do with Agent Barton's debriefing," Fury pointed out.

"What would you have us do, Director Fury?" the middle Council member spoke up angrily. "Ignore Agent Barton's involvement completely?"

"That's exactly what I would have you do," Fury confirmed.

"You can't be serious," the man said in disbelief.

"Have you ever known me to be a joking man, Councilman?" Fury deadpanned. "As Agent Barton has stated, he was not in control of his actions during the two days that he spent in Loki's presence."

"How can we know that for sure?" the middle Council member demanded. "Clearly he was more than just a puppet during this attack. There's overwhelming evidence that it was Agent Barton's classified knowledge that allowed our enemy to effectively infiltrate and take down the Helicarrier. With that knowledge so undeniably clear at work, can it really be definitively confirmed that there was no part of Agent Barton that knew exactly what he was doing?"

Steve couldn't stand by and watch this any longer.

"I believe that it can," Steve stated as he strode forward.

Both Fury and Barton turned, looking at him in surprise as he approached. He settled himself on Barton's other side, keeping Barton securely between himself and Fury. Even though he knew that these people could not physically come after Barton, he still felt the need to protect this member of his team in any way that he could.

"Council, I fought side by side with Agent Barton in the battle in New York," Steve said. "It was then that I got to see the real Clint Barton. There was no question which side he was on. He put himself at great risk in order to bring down that alien invasion. This man didn't just help save New York, he helped to save the entire world."

"One could argue that he put it in danger in the first place," one of the Council members spoke up.

Steve felt his anger flare.

"With all due respect, Council," Steve said, straining to keep his voice calm, "I understand your frustration. This is a new situation for you and it's hard to get your minds around this previously unknown concept that one of your agents could be brainwashed by an alien. Believe me, I get what it's like to struggle to understand huge advances in technology. But the solution is not to take a pound of flesh from an innocent bystander in the situation so that you can sleep better feeling like you had some control over the situation."

"Captain Rogers, while we are grateful for what you have done for us, you really have no place here," the female Council member interjected.

Clearly there was no reasoning with these people. Time for Plan B.

"I do have a place here," he countered firmly. "Agent Barton is a part of _my_ team and he is under the protection of the Avengers. If you want him as your sacrificial lamb, you will have to come through us. Now, if you have any legitimate questions for Agent Barton about what happened to him, you can ask them now. Otherwise, I believe we are done here."

There was a shocked silence in the wake of Steve's speech. Clearly, they had not been expecting such an ultimatum.

"We will be keeping a close eye on the situation," the middle Councilman finally spoke up, sounding thrown off balance by the sudden turn of events. "If Agent Barton steps out of line, serious actions will have to be considered."

The man ended his transmission, his screen snapping to black. One by one, the other Council members followed suit. It seemed they weren't up for going toe to toe with Captain America.

Barton turned to look at Steve, his eyes wide with shock.

"You didn't need to do that, Cap," he said, a note of disbelief in his voice.

"I couldn't just stand by and let them use you as their scapegoat," Steve said. His next words came out so naturally it was a wonder that there had been any doubt at all over the connection between them. "We are a team now, Barton. We need to have each other's backs."

Barton nodded, relief and gratitude in his gaze.

The Avengers had been formed out of a desperate necessity. It wasn't clear what they were supposed to do now that the world wasn't in danger. Save for Thor – and Barton at first – they had all been drawn to stay together, even if they couldn't really voice why. On the surface there was no reason for it and it would have made sense to go their separate ways.

But as he, Barton and Romanoff made their way out of the SHIELD base, Steve felt like he better understood. They alone knew what it was to go toe to toe with Loki and his army, to be the only defense between an alien invasion and Earth. And in this moment of respite and as they all tried to figure out where to go from here, maybe it was enough that they could simply find comfort and support in each other.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
** **NOOSE**


	23. Noose

**Author's** **Note:** Hello everybody! Sorry this is a little late with posting today, I'm just coming from being emotionally destroyed by _Avengers: Endgame_ for the second time this weekend. I have feeeeellllings! Just to be on the safe side because I don't know if this would be an issue or not, I'm just going to say please refrain from posting any spoilers for the movie in the reviews. And if you haven't seen it... GO! It's definitely an experience that needs to be had in the theater!

Thank you so much to **YoungPrinceLou** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **BrokenKestral** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; and **anaticulapraecantrix** for taking the time to review the last chapter! You guys are my favorites and I love reading your thoughts on each chapter!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE  
** **NOOSE**

 _AIR!_

That one thought screamed through his head as he launched himself up in a blind panic. He didn't have enough air, something was strangling him, preventing air from reaching his starved lungs. He clawed at his neck, desperate to release the pressure. In his panicked state he couldn't comprehend that there was nothing there.

As Clint desperately sucked in air his gaze darted around, frantically trying to take in his surroundings. For a moment, everything was dark, and his heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest. But then, slowly, light began to flood the area around him. He blinked as a room that was slowly becoming familiar to him came in to focus.

Stark Tower. Or was it Avengers Tower now? He had been crashing here for several weeks, but he still wasn't quite sure if was home. Of course, the SHIELD base was no longer home either, not without Phil.

Clint carefully shifted in the bed, putting his back against the wall so that he had a clearer view of the whole room. He struggled to even out his ragged breathing as he attempted to ground himself firmly back in reality. He leaned his head back against the solid wall and focused on visual cues he had set up around the room. Each wall had a spray-painted circle with set of crosshairs through it, each target a different color.

Lock gaze on first target and identify. _Right wall, green target._ Breathe in through nose, hold, breathe out through mouth. Shift gaze to next target and identify. _Center wall, blue target._ Breathe in through nose, hold, breathe out through mouth. Shift gaze to next target and identify. _Left wall, red target._ Breathe in through nose, hold, breathe out through mouth. Shift gaze to next target and identify. _Ceiling, purple target._

It took four rounds of this grounding technique before his surroundings finally felt real again.

Clint stretched his neck out as he continued to take deep breaths and ran a hand over his throat, focusing on the fact that there was nothing between his fingers and his skin. There was nothing squeezing his neck, nothing restricting his oxygen, nothing that tightened painfully every time he tried to exert his free will.

He allowed his hand to fall back to the bed as all his muscles released the tension that had balled them into painful knots. He let out a relieved breath as he pulled his knees up toward his chest and allowed his head to fall forward.

Clint Barton was no stranger to waking in a panic. He was well acquainted with nightmares and panic attacks; post-traumatic stress disorder was an old friend. Phil always assured him that these were normal side effect considering how deeply he felt his emotions despite the work that he did for a living. In the heat of the moment, he did not feel anything when taking a life. But in the aftermath, each death that he caused added weight to his soul.

This was different though. Entire worlds different. It had been a very long time since he had to set up so many visual cues in order to help him calm down from a panic attack like that. And even then, it took longer than it ever had to help to ground him.

Loki had done this to him.

Clint was up and moving before he comprehended what he was doing. He pulled on a pair of boots and then a nearby t-shirt to go with his sweat pants. He paused long enough to put in his civilian hearing aids and then he was out the door and slipping into the darkness of the Tower.

Construction had just completed on the Tower several days before, although Stark said he still had months of "pimping out" to do before it would be returned to its former glory. Clint didn't even want to know what that meant. All he knew was that the Tower still had that uncomfortably new smell to it, like everything was too clean. The carpet was too thick and plush under his socked feet, muffling vibrations that he had honed his ability to feel. There were so many nooks and crannies that it felt like he was always being watched from the shadows.

There were just so many things about this place that made his skin crawl.

But Natasha wanted him to give this place a shot. And after Captain America himself had stuck his neck out for Clint during his debriefing with the Counsel, it was difficult for Clint to really justify taking off again. It couldn't hurt to hang around and see if Rogers could actually get this team to work together when there wasn't an active alien invasion, right?

Instinct alone took him up through the Tower. Heights had always been comforting to him, being up above everything always gave him a clearer perspective. It was that instinct that had him climbing countless stairs in the Tower. He couldn't really say what possessed him to stop at that particular floor though.

His feet carried him to that spot in the middle of the still mostly empty room and he stopped, staring down at the floor. The entire floor had been redone with carpeting, but Clint still knew in his bones that this was the exact spot. It was the exact spot where Loki had lay in a crater that the Hulk had put him in. It was right where Loki had sat as Clint had pointed a drawn arrow at his head, working harder than he ever had not to just let that arrow fly.

Had he known then what Loki had done to Phil, he had no doubt that he wouldn't have been able to hold himself back. But that news hadn't been broken to him until after Loki had been taken back to Asgard by Thor.

"I'm thinking about having a monument erected there." Clint jumped at the sudden voice, blaming the damn plush carpet for muffling the vibrations he would have normally felt when someone entered the room. He whipped around to see Stark walking into the room. "I'm thinking an action shot of Hulk just obliterating the bastard. Heavy on the gory details. What do you think?"

Clint honestly wasn't sure if he was serious or not. Stark was hard to read in that way. In any case, it appeared that Stark wasn't interested in an actual answer as he didn't break stride on his way to the restored and restocked bar in the room.

"Drink?" Stark offered as he poured himself a generous glass. Clint simply shook his head, eyeing Stark's movements warily. Growing up with a violently alcoholic father had made Clint fundamentally uncomfortable around heavy drinkers. Stark sighed heavily. "What's a guy gotta do to get someone to have a drink with him?"

"I don't drink," Clint felt the need to point out.

"Oh, so he does speak," Stark commented with mild sarcastic surprise. "I don't think I've heard you string two words together since your little meeting with SHIELD."

Clint inwardly cringed at the memory. But his focus was quickly shifted as Stark started to make his way across the room, fresh drink in hand. He was giving Clint – or perhaps simply the spot where Loki had lay – a wide berth. As he moved to Clint's peripheral, Clint automatically tracked the man, turning so that he was never behind him. Stark made his way over to the wall of windows that looked over New York City, but he glanced uneasily over at Clint.

"You know, it's creepy when you do that," Stark pointed out.

"Sorry," Clint said as he made an effort to blink several times and soften his admittedly hard gaze. "Occupational habit."

Stark studied him for a moment, thinking something over. "You didn't want me behind you." Clint simply raised his eyebrows at that, unsure why that was a problem. "Isn't that a symptom of that…" He waved his glass vaguely in the air as he searched his mind for the right term. "P.D…S.T.? P.S.T.D.?"

Clint snorted at his floundering. "P.T.S.D.," he supplied.

"I had the letters right," Stark said with an unconcerned shrug as he turned toward the window.

But just before he turned, Clint caught just a flash of something dark in Stark's eyes. Clint had seen something similar when they had been discussing the Council before Clint's debriefing. Clint stood there and debated for a moment. He could turn around, head back to his room and see if he could get some more sleep. He had no obligations here and Stark certainly didn't appear to be looking for company. He had the air of somebody who had written Clint off as soon as he realized that he wasn't going to be a drinking buddy.

But even with that thought, Clint found himself walking forward. As he approached the window, he left a generous amount of space between the two of them. He didn't say anything, simply let his gaze wander around the lights of New York City, the city that never sleeps.

"What's that?" Stark asked suddenly.

Clint flinched a little at the sudden broken silence. He glanced at Stark, expecting him to be looking at something outside the window. But oddly, he seemed to be looking right at Clint. Clint glanced down at himself and then glanced behind him, his heartbeat picking up in his chest as he looked for a threat.

"What?" Clint finally asked, his gaze still darting around as he searched for danger.

"In your ear," Stark clarified.

Clint let out a slightly relieved sigh. He reached up to check that the aid was still securely in place. "My hearing aid," he said simply.

There was a long pause. "You say that like it's completely normal," Stark finally pointed out.

Clint shrugged one shoulder. "It has been completely normal for me for the past…" He paused as he considered it for a moment. "Nine, ten years or so."

Clint could see Stark doing the math in his head. "Your hearing was damaged while working for SHIELD."

It wasn't a question, but Clint answered anyway. "It was a mission gone bad. Things got out of hand and all protocols went to shit. We were on our own and sacrifices had to be made so that we could make it out alive."

It had taken a long time, but Clint had eventually come to terms with his hearing loss. It was something he lived with and he was now used to dealing with the hurdles that it presented to him. But the mention of that mission and the connection that it held to Phil… it sent a sharp pain through his chest that almost took his breath away, tearing at a wound that had not even begun to close.

It was still agonizing to just think Phil's name.

"Sounds familiar," Stark murmured as he turned back to the window before taking a long swig from his glass.

Clint was snapped back to the present. His eyes went to the dark sky above New York City. He had watched from the window he had just crashed through as Iron Man flew that nuke through the portal. He had watched with baited breath to see if Stark would reappear. He barely knew the man, but when Rogers had grimly commanded Natasha to close the portal… it had been like a clamp had closed around his chest. And that had only partly been because of the broken ribs.

"You know, he tried to use that Glow Stick of Destiny on me," Stark said suddenly. He looked down, tapping the glowing spot on his t-shirt absently. "Still not completely sure why it didn't work."

Clint eyed Stark's arc reactor, feeling a spark of jealously at this new information. "Lucky bastard," he said lightly before shifting his gaze back to the window.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Stark glance over at him. There was a beat of silence, and then out of nowhere Stark posed the one question that had the potential to shatter the careful denial and strategic distractions that Clint had built like an armor around himself over the past couple months.

"What was it like?"

Everything within Clint froze. His eyes unfocused and the lights of the New York City skyline blurred. Slowly and deliberately, Clint took a deep breath in through his nose, paused and then carefully let it out through his mouth. He repeated the action several times before his mind finally decided to catch up with the situation.

With an effort, he tore his eyes away from the window to look at Stark. He was able to read the man at just a glance. He wasn't asking to be an ass or out of morbid curiosity. He was looking for someone to connect with the trauma of what happened to him. He wanted to know that someone else had been affected by what happened like he had.

That's something Clint could understand.

He shifted his gaze back to the window and did his best to forget that anyone else was in the room with him. He dug deep within himself, easing open a door that he had locked months ago.

"Everything was kind of… a haze." Clint's voice sounded foreign, even to himself. "Like the world had been filled with fog and then a cold, blue filter had been placed over everything. I had a vague sense of what was going on, but… have you ever had a dream, but you were aware that it was a dream? I knew that I should have control over what was going on, but I didn't. I would try to affect things, to make my body respond to me…"

Clint swallowed and then stretched his neck out to one side and then the other, assuring himself that he was in fact still free.

"It was like a noose. Whenever I tried to make my body do anything, it was like a noose would snap around my neck, choking me as it pulled me away from what was real. Any handhold in reality that I felt like I had been reaching for would be gone. And then I'd have to start all over trying to push through that fog. Over… and over…"

Never in a million years would Clint have thought that Tony Stark of all people would be the first person he would tell the whole story to.

For several minutes, everything was silent as Clint carefully packed all those emotions back into the box to bury back into his subconscious. He focused on the carpet under his feet, the air in his lungs. He subtly dropped his center of gravity, letting his body feel heavy and using that to ground himself back in the moment.

When he finally felt like the world wasn't about to slip out from under his feet, Clint finally took a breath and shifted his gaze back to Stark. The man wasn't looking at him, but the darkness that Clint had glimpsed earlier had settled into Stark's distant gaze.

"Shit like what Loki did doesn't go away overnight," Clint said. Stark mechanically turned his head toward him, trying to put on a confused face like he didn't know exactly what Clint was talking about. Clint sent a pointed glance over his shoulder at that spot where Loki had been forcibly embedded into the floor by the Hulk. "C'mon Stark, let's not bullshit here. It's not a coincidence that we both ended up here at this time of night."

Apparently, he wasn't the only one in the Tower haunted by nightmares.

Stark's gaze wandered back up to the night sky. "I haven't gotten more than an hour or two of sleep at a time since it happened," he admitted quietly. He paused to take a generous gulp from his glass. "Every time I close my eyes… it's like I'm there again. It's like I'm back through that portal… no air… trying to accept my inevitable death…"

"That kind of shit stays with you," Clint acknowledged.

"Does it get easier?" Stark asked. He made an effort to make it sound nonchalant, but Clint could see the worry behind his eyes. "With, you know, time or some shit?"

Clint was quiet as he considered his answer carefully.

"As time goes on, you know better what to expect in the aftermath of this kind of thing," Clint finally said diplomatically. "You figure out how to deal with it and what kind of coping mechanisms will get you through it. But the feelings will still always be there, right under the surface. It's just about learning how to live with them."

For just a split second, Stark couldn't hide the disappointment in his features. It wasn't the answer he was hoping for. He shifted his gaze, looking down at the empty glass in his hand with a frown.

"I know you didn't really choose this life, Stark," Clint went on after a minute of awkward silence. "No one would blame you if you decided to walk away from it."

Stark shifted the glass in his hand, letting the ice left in it clink against the sides as he contemplated that. Without looking at Clint, he spoke again.

"What keeps you in the life, Barton?"

Clint was surprised into silence by the question. In his thirteen years as an Agent of SHIELD, he could honestly say it wasn't something that he had ever really thought about.

"I don't know what else I would do with my life," Clint said honestly. "I joined SHIELD when I was eighteen. Before that… well I wasn't really going anywhere, you know? I was just kind of wandering with no direction in life. I was just living one day at a time, never even really saw a future for myself. It wasn't until I joined SHIELD that I finally really fit somewhere, and my life finally started to make some kind of sense." He shrugged. "I guess what keeps me in the life is that fact that I wouldn't fit into any other kind of life."

"That… is very sad," Stark finally said with a humorless laugh and a small shake of his head.

Clint cocked an eyebrow at that. "Why?"

"I always thought that about weapons dealing," Stark said, a pensive look on his face. "I never considered doing anything else with my life, didn't think I was made for any other kind of life."

Clint blinked blankly. That was not what he had expected out of this conversation.

"You know what I learned after spending three months in that cave in Afghanistan?" Stark said, continuing without pausing for a response. "I learned that it's never too late to decide what you want to do with your life."

Stark took one last one look at the New York skyline before he turned on his heels and started heading back out of the room. Clint quietly tracked his movements as he headed back toward the elevator. But just before Stark left, he paused in the doorway, looking back at Clint.

"Good talk, Barton," he said mildly, but there was an undertone of sincerity in his voice. "You should come around more often, come out of that nest of yours from time to time."

Clint stared after him for a long time after he disappeared. And for the first time, he wondered if maybe he wasn't so out of place here.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
CATHARTIC SHOWER/BATH**


	24. Cathartic Shower

**Author's** **Note:** Thank you guys once again for all your support so far with this story! I know I must sound super repetitive in these notes, but I really do appreciate it and it really does mean so much to me to get to share this with you guys! Special shout outs to **YoungPrinceLou** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **TheAnomally** ; **anaticulapraecantrix** ; and **carrie4262** for taking the time to review the last chapter! You guys are the best! We are getting sorta kinda toward the end of this (seven chapters left!) but rest assured that I'm already working on my next project that will hopefully be ready to start posting as soon as this one has finished!

And now, we shall continue!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR  
** **CATHARTIC SHOWER / BATH**

Clint ran his hands under the cold water pouring out of faucet. He cupped his hands, letting the water pool for a moment before leaning over the sink and splashing the water up over his face, letting the bite of the frigid water ground him with a gasp. He braced both hands on the edge of the sink, leaning heavily as he focused on just breathing and trying to slow his heart still pounding against his ribs.

He squeezed his eye closed. This was not how he thought this day was going to go.

It hadn't been ideal from the start. It was supposed to be a quiet day in the Avengers Tower as the team was getting some far overdue downtime after a few missions in a row. Clint and Natasha had been sparring lightly on the roof of the building, enjoying the weather finally cooling down in anticipation of the approaching autumn, when a nearby explosion had stopped them both in their tracks. There was no time for planning, there was no time to consider strategy, the team was forced to run into the situation blind.

So much for a quiet day.

He ran his hand under the stream of water again before scrubbing his face with an open palm. When he opened his eyes, he was only vaguely aware that the water running off his face and back into the sink was tinged a rusty color.

With Thor still away at Asgard, it was Steve, Bruce, and Tony who had joined Natasha and Clint. Bruce had been ordered by Steve to stay back until they were able to assess the situation and decide if it warranted a Code Green… unfortunately no more than five minutes later, some falling debris took that choice away from them.

Clint took a shaky breath as he finally reached out and flicked the water off. He needed to move. He wanted to check on Natasha, but he needed to get cleaned up first. After all, that was the excuse he had used to close himself into his apartment in Avengers Tower in order to regroup.

He turned to the shower, reaching in and flicking the knob to turn on the water. He left the temperature cold and reached out to let the water wash over his hand. After a moment, without conscious thought, he found himself stepping into the shower, boots, full uniform, comms. and all. The frigid water stole his breath in a gasp as it cascaded over him, but it also grounded him. He leaned forward and braced both hands heavily against the wall under the showerhead, hanging his head and allowing the water to wash over his neck and claw its way down his spine. The water pooled brown and murky at his feet before disappearing down the drain.

He could still hear the echo of Hulk's enraged roar echoing through his head.

Clint had fought alongside Hulk before, but this time was drastically different. A voluntarily released Hulk was a completely different creature from an involuntarily released Hulk. Bruce had once described it as the difference between being in the passenger's seat or the backseat of the car barreling down the Autobahn. When he chose to allow the Hulk to take over, Bruce felt he still had a significant influence, even if Hulk was the one driving the car. But when Hulk broke loose on his own, it was like he was tossed into the backseat, yelling to try to be heard over the road noise and without a clear line of sight as to where they were actually headed.

Natasha had told him about the terror she had felt when she had faced an out of control Hulk on the Helicarrier. It was reason to take notice of the information, because the Black Widow did not scare easily, but Clint hadn't really understood what it was like to really look the creature in the eye until today.

Clint rolled his hands into fists, bracing his knuckles against the polished granite wall, clenching his jaw as he squeezed his eyes shut. As much as he tried not to think about it, the events of the days came crashing back over him.

* * *

 _ **One Hour Ago**_

" _Well done, team, I think we've earned a vacation,"_ Tony announced wearily over the comms. as the chaos finally subsided.

"Uh, guys?" Clint spoke up. "We still have a problem."

When Bruce had unexpectedly transformed, there wasn't much to be done about it but try and corral him toward the bad guys and stay clear of his rampage. Steve and Natasha had managed to evacuate several blocks worth of people, hoping to keep innocent bystanders out of the Hulk's path of destruction. But now that the danger had passed, the still raging creature needed to be dealt with.

Clint had kept a close but safe proximity to the Hulk through the battle, keeping an eye on him and making sure he stayed within the evacuation radius, sending an explosive arrow into his path whenever he started to wander too far. But with the enemy defeated and no more targets to keep him occupied, the Hulk seemed to only be getting more enraged as he turned his anger on the surrounding cars and buildings.

" _Romanoff, it looks like Banner's going to need a pep talk,"_ Tony said as Clint spotted him passing overhead.

Natasha had been experimenting with some of her manipulation skills to try and calm the Hulk down, allowing Bruce more control and often able to allow him enough of a foothold to be able to transform back into himself. It was beginning to work reasonably well with a voluntarily transformed Hulk as she was building up trust with him… they had yet to test the theory on a completely out of control Hulk though.

" _That's going to be a problem,"_ Steve spoke up. _"Romanoff isn't going anywhere right now."_

"Nat?" Clint suddenly demanded, momentarily distracted from the situation in front of him. "What happened, is she okay?"

" _I'm fine,"_ Natasha snapped, much to Clint's relief. He could hear the tense edge of pain in her tone. _"It's probably just a broken leg. I'm just not very mobile at the moment."_

" _You know, I've never once paired the phrase 'I'm fine,' with a condition that included broken bones,"_ Tony commented.

" _How close are you two to Hulk?"_ Steve demanded.

"I'm on the street about two blocks south," Clint reported.

" _I've got a bird's eye on the situation,"_ Tony reported.

Clint lifted his gaze to see Tony landing on the edge of a roof of a nearby building, about twenty stories up. Clint was already going over strategy in his head. With Natasha incapacitated and Steve with her, that left him and Tony to handle the problem. And Tony didn't exactly have the tact to calm a normal human being, let alone a raging Hulk. Clint got a sinking feeling in his gut he knew where this was going to land.

" _If Romanoff is out of commission, then we need a new plan,"_ Tony pointed out tersely. _"This isn't really the ideal setting for the Big Guy to work out his anger issues._ _Another couple blocks and he'll be out of the evacuation radius."_

"I've got a concussive arrowhead I can use, maybe knock him out," Clint offered without much hope.

" _You know that'll only piss him off more, Clint,"_ Natasha said. _"You're going to have to talk him down."_

Clint sighed heavily. He had been afraid of that.

"Not my strong suit, you know that, Nat."

Natasha was the one on Strike Team Delta that would get up and personal, the one who would manipulate people in order to get what she needed. It was why she was the one chosen to try and gain some sort of control over the Hulk. Clint was the distance guy, the one blending in and watching over her, protecting her as he continually analyzed the situation from above.

" _I'll talk you through it,"_ Natasha assured him. _"Now hurry your ass up."_

Clint took a moment, eyeing the area that Hulk was still destroying in full rampage mode warily.

"I don't get paid enough for this," he muttered to himself as he finally willed himself to take one step and then another, building up momentum until he was jogging toward his teammate.

Because the Hulk was his teammate… right?

" _Stark, come help with Romanoff,_ " Steve spoke up with authority. Clint was all too aware of the sound of Iron Man taking off again echoing off the buildings around him, leaving him alone with the Hulk. _"Barton, I'm on my way as backup. Hold off until I get there if you can."_

"I'll see what I can do, Cap," Clint said flatly, though he wasn't optimistic. Hulk wasn't anywhere near calming down and he didn't get the sense that he'd have the luxury to wait for backup.

He slowed to a stop a comfortable half a block from the Hulk, watching as the creature picked up a car and flung in into a building, sending debris cascading down over the area. Thankfully he was still in the area that they knew had been evacuated. For the moment it was only property damage they were trying to spare.

By habit, Clint analyzed the area, picking out the perfect vantage point where he could perch. He could see a hitch in Hulk's step, wondering if he could feel pain and if perhaps there was a weak point.

Clint shook his head, trying to shake off the mindset that had kept him alive all these years. It wasn't going to help him here.

" _Talk to me, what's the situation?"_ Natasha prompted. There was tension in her voice, and Clint had to wonder if she was actually getting the medical attention that she needed. He didn't dare ask though. He needed her voice in his ear right now.

"Big surprise… he's angry."

" _You need to put your bow away."_

"You're fucking with me," Clint accused as he unconsciously tightened his grip on the weapon.

" _Hulk can recognize a threat,"_ Natasha snapped. _"You need him to trust you and he's not going to do that if you come at him armed. Now put it away."_

For a long moment, Clint remained perfectly still, as if suddenly made of stone. His bow was part of him, it was something that put him at ease. It had protected him in more ways than one ever since he first started firing the weapon as an orphaned, eleven-year-old carnie. Putting that down, especially with an obvious threat within spitting distance, was not an easy thing for him to get his mind around.

" _Any day now, Barton."_

Of course Natasha knew exactly what he was struggling with, even without being able to see him.

Clint took a deep breath as he snapped his bow back into the collapsed position with the flick of his wrist. The motion caused Hulk's eyes to snap to him and he let out a boneshaking roar as he took an aggressive step in Clint's direction. For a moment, Clint remained absolutely still, hardly daring to breath as he waited to see if Hulk would react further. He was relieved when the Hulk stayed where he was, though he didn't like the way that he was still eyeing him. Clint carefully put out his free hand placatingly as he slowly moved the bow behind his back.

"Easy, big fella," Clint said, hearing the slight tremor in his own voice. "Just putting it away. Not gonna hurt you, okay?"

He snapped the bow back into its compartment on his quiver, his eyes still steadily trained on the Hulk the entire time. He had to forcefully pry his fingers off the weapon so that he could hold out both hands to show the Hulk that his hands were now empty. He knew that even with his hands empty, he could have his bow back out, an arrow loaded and could fire in the span of three to five seconds.

Not that that was going to help him in this situation.

" _Good boy."_

Clint rolled his eyes at Natasha's mocking tone.

"Okay, I'm unarmed and about to approach a raging Hulk," Clint reported in a sarcastic undertone as he took a tentative step forward. "I'm sure this is gonna go real well."

" _Just keep calm,"_ Natasha coached. _"You're not going to calm him down if you can't set the example."_

" _Might I suggest you also stay frosty, Legolas, so that old Jolly Green doesn't take your pretty head off?"_ Tony spoke up.

" _Not helping, Stark,"_ Natasha snapped.

If his comms. didn't double as his hearing aids, he would have taken them out in frustration.

"Guys," Clint said lowly with annoyance as he took another careful step. "I kind of need to concentrate here."

He now had the Hulk's full attention and it was hard to see that as a good thing as the creature was looking at him much like he had been looking at the cars he had been haphazardly flinging just a minute before. Hulk paced with a kind of smoldering energy, but didn't make any move toward Clint, so he took that as a good sign.

"Hey, buddy," Clint tried, giving Hulk a cautious smile as he continued his slow, measured approach. "Take it easy, okay? Battle's over, time to go home."

Hulk did not like that idea.

The roar rattled Clint down through his bones and he barely had time to register the fact that Hulk had lunged at him. With no time to move in either direction, Clint threw himself into a low roll through the debris that had been at Hulk's feet, the creature sailing over him. Clint's shoulder jammed against a jagged crater in the street that had been made with Hulk's foot, but he didn't have time to feel the pain. Muscle memory had his hand on the riser of his bow and he had to force himself not to draw it from its compartment. He wasn't going to win this with force.

So, instead of drawing his weapon like his instincts were screaming at him to do, he came out of his rolled and spun back toward the Hulk, remaining down on one knee has he put both his empty hands up just as Hulk was swinging around to come back at him.

"Whoa, wait, wait," Clint gasped desperately.

Remarkably, the Hulk actually skidded to a stop in front of Clint's submissive state. Honestly, Clint had been fully expecting to be run over.

"Barton, get out of there!" Steve yelled as he finally arrived on the scene, a note of panic bleeding into his command. He slowed to a stop a half of block from the two of them, likely not wanting to startle Hulk – who stood squarely between him and his teammate – into trampling Clint. Hulk didn't react to the arrival, instead his gaze stayed pinned on Clint.

But rather than scrambling away and leaving the task to Steve, Clint paused, meeting Hulk's gaze for the first time. He could recognize emotions underneath all the anger, he could see confusion, suspicion and fear rapidly passing through his features. Maybe there was something other than blind rage that Clint could make a connection with.

"No!" Clint called back, surprising even himself. He kept his eyes steadily on the Hulk even though his heart was pounding wildly against his ribs. "No, it's okay!" He lowered his voice so that he was addressing the Hulk looming over him. "It's okay, right? You're not gonna hurt me?" The conflict in Hulk's eyes was far from comforting. "You got scared today, didn't you? Didn't know you'd be coming out. You did good though. Helped us defeat the bad guys. So, thank you for that."

That got a reaction. The giant's gaze immediately softened with an air of confusion. It might have been the first time someone had looked right at the Hulk and thanked him. Mostly for his own peace of mind, Clint slowly pushed himself up off his knee to stand in front of the giant. The Hulk watched his every move warily.

" _Good, Clint,"_ Natasha said quietly in his ear. _"Humanize him. Establish a physical contact to ground him and show him you're not afraid."_

Rather than taking the time to point out that he was in fact scared shitless, knowing full well that the Hulk could kill him with a casual backhand at this proximity, Clint took a steadying breath as he reached out a careful hand. He used his less dominant right hand… just in case. Hulk shuffled uneasily but didn't back away from the gesture.

"Easy, big guy," Clint assured. His fingertips met the rough, green skin of the back of one of Hulk's massive hands. Hulk stilled under the touch, looking down at him as if he were some sort of puzzle. "It's all good. There's no more danger here. Right?"

The Hulk glanced around as if to confirm the statement. He fixed his gaze back down on Clint, and Clint met his eyes evenly. There was more intelligence behind those eyes than Clint would have expected, and he got the distinct feeling that he was being carefully analyzed.

"No danger," Hulk finally growled as if the realization were just dawning on him.

"That's right," Clint confirmed, relief in his tone as he finally felt like he was getting through to him. "There's no more danger here."

The Hulk let out a surprisingly delicate sigh as he suddenly stumbled and despite himself, Clint's heart jumped up into his throat as he took a frantic step back and his hand snapped back toward his bow before he could stop himself. But the Hulk wasn't coming toward him. He was stumbling away from him, suddenly looking disoriented.

Clint watched with a detached disbelief as the Hulk started shrinking, his green skin fading and giving way to pale flesh. After a few moments, a very human Bruce Banner collapsed on the ground just a few steps away from him.

Clint knew that he should move forward and check to see if Bruce was okay. But his boots felt like they were rooted to the ground beneath him. He just stood there dumbly, his hand still hovering near his bow as Steve rushed to Bruce.

* * *

 _ **Present**_

Clint snapped off the water and leaned his forehead up against the wall under the showerhead. His clothes were completely soaked through, clinging heavily to him and grounding him back in the moment. It was one thing to go up against an enemy who wanted to kill you… it was something completely different to go up against a teammate like that.

Finally, spurred on by the fact that he hadn't checked on Natasha's condition yet, Clint mechanically climbed out of the shower. He changed into dry clothes and took his field aids out of his ears, laying them out on the sink to dry. He dried out his ears and was just putting in his civilian hearing aids when the lights in the apartment dulled and brightened three times, signaling someone was at his door. Tony had fixed up the system to be more hearing impaired friendly shortly after he had moved in.

He was unsurprised to find Steve on the other side of the door.

"Is Nat okay?" Clint asked immediately, forgoing any kind of greeting as he felt a twisting in his stomach.

"She'll be fine, just going to need to be off her feet for a few weeks," Steve assured him. "She actually sent me to check on you, make sure _you_ were okay."

Clint nodded. It made sense. It would have been a red flag to her that he hadn't shown up in the infirmary to check on her yet.

"It's a little different seeing the real Hulk up close and personal, isn't it?" Steve went on sympathetically, pinning Clint with a knowing look.

Clint wondered if it was that obvious how rattled he was, or if Natasha had also clued Steve in to what she suspected Clint's state of mind to be.

"Yeah, it is," Clint admitted, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "It… wasn't what I expected it to be."

"We've all been there," Steve assured him. "It's practically a rite of passage for this team at this point."

Clint couldn't help but smirk at that. "Guess you're right. Guess that means I'm part of the team now."

Steve laughed at that. "You got that right, Hawkeye." He gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, one that Clint didn't flinch away from, a sign of trust. "C'mon. Natasha wants to see you herself."

"That can't be good," Clint laughed as he followed Steve out into the hallway and toward the infirmary, knowing that Natasha would be cross with him for going off on his own to sulk.

"No, it can't be," Steve agreed. "Keep her waiting much longer and you're going to miss going up against the Hulk."

Clint chuckled but also picked up the pace. It was never good to be on Natasha's bad side.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
SELF-INFLICTED**


	25. Self-Inflicted

**Author's Note:** Thank you SO MUCH to **YoungPrinceLou** ; **BeautifullyDamagedSimplyMe** ; **white collar black wolf** ; **BrokenKestral** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **anaticulapraecantrix** ; and **GloriousPurpose12** for taking the time to leave a review on the last chapter! Wow, so much love on the last chapter, you guys make me feel so amazing! Thank you so much for your continued support, it means so much to me!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE  
** **SELF-INFLICTED**

"How long has he been in there?" Steve asked.

Natasha glanced back at him as he approached before returning her gaze to the only man standing inside the Tower's shooting range. She hadn't gone so far as to enter the room, but rather was leaning up against the doorframe with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"Since we got back," Natasha said flatly.

Steve had suspected that, considering that both him and Natasha were still in full battle torn uniform, but it was still troubling to hear it confirmed. That had been almost four hours ago.

"Have you tried to stop him?" Steve asked.

Natasha shook her head. "I've learned from years of experience that once he gets going, there's no stopping him."

"How long does he usually do this for?" Steve asked warily.

"Until he collapses." She sighed and the spoke again so quietly, it was almost as if she were speaking to herself. "Clint Barton is his own worst enemy."

"Why don't you take a break," Steve suggested. "Go get cleaned up. I'll keep an eye on him until you get back."

Natasha turned and regarded him skeptically for a moment.

"You're going to try and talk to him." It wasn't a question.

Steve shrugged sheepishly. "It's what I do."

Natasha turned, waving a dismissive hand at him as she started to walk away. "Far be it from me to stop you. Bang your head against that brick wall to your Star-Spangled heart's content."

And she was gone.

Steve turned and took a deep breath before he carefully stepped into the range. It was a strange, almost unsettling feeling walking into a quiet shooting range. It was normally a place of high activity and noises so loud one would normally need noise cancelling headphones. But today, with only the rhythmic _TWACK_ of an arrow sinking into a target every couple seconds, the atmosphere was deceptively peaceful.

Steve felt wary as he approached Barton who had taken over the last stall in the row. Out of all the Avengers, Steve felt like he knew the least about their archer. The man tended to keep to himself and even after a year of Avengers mission he still seemed to stand on the outskirts of the team.

"Barton?" Steve tried as he approached.

Barton had his back to him, not pausing as he reached into the quiver hanging at his belt, nocked another arrow and fired. Steve followed the arrow with his eyes, watching as it hit the target down the range, clustered perfectly in the middle circle with a couple dozen other arrows.

When Barton didn't acknowledge Steve's presence, Steve started to reach for the man, but quickly thought better of it. Instead, he moved carefully around behind Barton, intending to work his way into the archer's field of vision before trying to get his attention again.

It happened so fast, he almost didn't have time to react.

Just as he stepped into Barton's peripheral vision, the man whirled and suddenly there was the deadly, sharpened point coming at Steve's face. He let out a gasp of surprise and was just barely able to get his hands up in time to catch Barton's wrist and stop the arrow just before it buried in his face.

"Whoa, easy Barton!" Steve gasped, just a hint of a hysterical undertone at the sudden turn of events. "It's just me!"

As Steve met the archer's eyes, for a moment, all he could see was a dark rage. But then, abruptly, the look melted as recognition entered his gaze. There was another long pause before the tension behind the arrow finally lifted and Barton dropped his arm back to his side.

"Sorry, Cap," Barton mumbled, turning back toward the target. He nocked and fired the arrow, already reaching for another as the first reached the target. "Didn't know you were there."

There was something strange about his voice that Steve couldn't quite place. Almost as if he weren't quite enunciating properly for some reason.

Steve took a tentative step to the side and opened his mouth to explain that he had called Barton's name before approaching, but the words didn't make it out. As he moved, his foot hit something small on the ground, sending it skidding away. Steve looked down and took a step toward the small object, shifting the item with his foot before he managed to recognize it.

It was one of Barton's hearing aids.

That's why Barton hadn't heard him walk in or call his name. He didn't have his hearing aids in. Steve groaned internally. This was suddenly much more complicated than he thought it would be.

For their first couple missions as a team, Steve hadn't even known that Barton was deaf. He had been surprised when he found out but hadn't thought too much of it. The archer could clearly hold his own just fine, had proved that fact time and time again, so it seemed mostly like a nonissue. It did prompt the team as a whole to learn some emergency signs to be able to use in a pinch, but between Barton's almost inhuman ability to lip read and the fact that ninety percent of his waking hours he wore his hearing aids, it seemed like they could just file away the information and move on.

Steve was now regretting that mentality.

But Steve Rogers wasn't one to be deterred so easily. Taking a deep breath, he determinedly stepped forward. He deliberately broke the number one cardinal rule of the shooting range, you _**NEVER**_ step in front of the firing line of an active stall. And if it was anyone other than Barton, Steve wouldn't dare. But he trusted Barton's aim like he trusted gravity. The archer would never hit a target he wasn't aiming for.

Steve took two solid steps passed the firing line and then carefully turned so that he was facing Barton. The man didn't pause in his rhythm, continuing to fire arrows that whizzed by inches from Steve's right shoulder. Despite knowing that Barton would never harm him, it was still an unnerving position to be in and honestly Steve had to make himself stand there for several rounds before he found the will to speak.

"I wanted to tell you I heard from the hospital," Steve said evenly. "The kid's going to be okay."

Barton's eyes darted in his direction several times while he spoke but hadn't been watching closely enough to get the entire statement. It must have been enough though, because his rhythm finally faltered. He had an arrow nocked, but instead of firing he lowered the bow slightly and shifted his full attention to Steve expectantly.

"The hospital confirmed that the kid is going to be fine," Steve repeated, meeting Barton's gaze.

There was a brief spark of relief behind Barton's gaze. He nodded slightly before he shifted his gaze, raised his bow again and fired.

In the silence, Steve took the time to really look at Barton. He had some cuts and bruises from the battle, but nothing too serious. He might have left it at that, if he hadn't noticed the slight hiccup in Barton's form. He pulled the string of the bow almost all the way back and then seemed to have to pause for just split second and adjust his grip on the string before finishing the draw. That was wildly out of Barton's very methodical routine when it came to firing his bow. It wasn't until Steve focused on Barton's fingers as he nocked his next arrow that he really saw it.

He wasn't wearing his finger guards and his middle three fingers on his drawing hand were slick with blood.

"Barton, you can't beat yourself up over this," Steve tried. "It wasn't your fault, it could have happened to any of us."

But Barton was determinedly not looking at him, his eyes steadily on the target down range. Steve suddenly realized that this was why Barton had taken his hearing aids out. He wanted to block out the whole world; he wanted to drown himself in his guilt.

Steve was never one to back down so easily though.

He had to be extremely careful with his timing. As soon as Barton let go of an arrow, Steve was moving. He took two calm steps to the side and then squared his shoulders to Barton, now standing squarely between the now drawn arrow and the target. Steve calmly met Barton's fiery glare as he spoke again, making sure he had Barton's full attention this time.

"It's not your fault, Clint."

For a moment, neither of them moved. Barton stood there with his bow drawn, but Steve knew he couldn't hold it forever. The draw weight on Barton's bow was 250 pounds, generally an unheard-of weight for the weapon which awarded Barton unprecedented power behind his arrows. But even Barton could only hold a drawn arrow for so long.

Finally, just as his back arm was beginning to shake, Barton shifted the aim and let go, firing the arrow into the ground between Steve's feet. While Steve didn't flinch, he did forget to breath for half a second.

"You don't get it, Cap," Barton snapped. "If I had been faster, if I had just seen him sooner, I coulda saved him. That's on me, that will always be on me."

"You did save him, Clint," Steve said, pained that his teammate was so hard on himself. "You saw him before any of the rest of us did and put yourself in great danger to get him out of harm's way. He may be a little worse for the wear, but he will live because of you."

It had all happened so fast that Steve hadn't even known about it until after the fact. They thought they had cleared the battlefield of civilians, but somehow a small boy had wandered into the mayhem. Barton had seen him and immediately gone for the boy… but not before a stray bullet had gone through the kid's shoulder. Barton had scooped up the child and gotten him to safety, where he had handed him off to Iron Man who flew the kid immediately to the hospital.

"It's not good enough," Barton insisted. "He's gonna remember that pain and fear for the rest of his goddamn life."

"And he's going to remember the man who saved him," Steve interjected firmly before Barton could go on. "The man who put his own life at risk and saved his life. I promise you, that's what he will remember. Stark said the kid was holding on to you so tight, he had to pry him off you in order to get him to hospital. He knows you saved him, and that means something."

For a moment, Clint could only blink blankly at him.

"None of us are perfect," Steve went on gently. "And as much as we try to, we can't save everyone. But what happened today was in no way a failure. Trust me."

Clint's shoulders dropped, and Steve could see the fight draining out of him. Steve started to speak again before he noticed that Clint was no longer looking at him. Steve carefully reached out a hand, placing it on Clint's shoulder in order to bring his attention back up to him.

"C'mon, Clint. Let's go get you cleaned up, okay?"

Clint quietly complied as he allowed Steve to lead him out of the stall and down toward the exit, moving almost as if he were in a daze. He stumbled slightly, his muscles finally feeling the fatigue he had been suppressing for hours. Steve took a firmer hold of Clint's bicep in order to keep him steady. Clint allowed the help without complaint, which was telling of just how exhausted he was.

As they reached the door, Steve saw that Natasha had returned and was waiting for them in the doorway. He didn't miss the appreciative look that she shot him as the two approached.

"Impressive, Rogers," she said softly with a small smirk. Then she shifted her gaze to Clint, meeting his eyes and making sure she had his attention before she spoke. "Here."

She reached for Clint and without any further prompting, he held out his bloodied left hand. She gently took his hand and wrapped his middle three fingers tightly together with gauze she had brought back with her in an attempt to stem the bleeding.

It was painfully obvious that this wasn't the first time this had happened.

Steve passed off Clint to Natasha, with a wave of reluctant relief. Even though the Avengers had no official leader, he still couldn't help but feel responsible for the team as a whole. He watched as Natasha communicated with him in sign language as they walked, and Steve made a mental note to study up more on the language.

Because he had a feeling this wouldn't be the last time he would need to reason with Clint like this.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Just a heads up, next week's chapter is likely going to be a day late because I'll be out of town most of the weekend. So look for next week's chapter on that Monday! After that we will return to the normal schedule!

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
SENSORY DEPRIVATION **


	26. Sensory Deprivation

**Author's** **Note:** Thank you for your patience everyone! It was a crazy weekend! But next week we will be able to our usual schedule! Extra thank you to **IrethOfMirkwood** ; **JRBarton** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **anaticulapraecantrix** ; and **BrokenKestral** for taking the time to review the last chapter! I very much appreciate it! You guys are seriously amazing and I so appreciate your support!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX  
** **SENSORY DEPRIVATION**

The downside of standing above the action, watching the backs of all five of your teammates at once, was that you presented a clear and lone target to the enemy… and sometimes you forgot to watch your own back.

"Cap, incoming hostiles on your four o'clock," Clint reported as he loosed an arrow to take out a hostile coming up directly behind Natasha as she took down two others.

As he was reaching for his next arrow, something prickled on the back of Clint's neck, and he whipped around, loading and firing an arrow in the next breath. The hostile that had just come through the access door to the roof he was standing on collapsed in the doorway. But not before the grenade left his hand.

"Sonofa-" Clint had enough time to spit before the grenade detonated mere feet from him.

Instinct took over as Clint dropped, trying to make himself as small as possible. There was a thunderous CRACK and a blinding light that burned through his vision before he got the chance to close his eyes, and he braced himself to feel the bite of the inevitable fire… but it didn't come.

" _Clint!"_ he heard Natasha shouting through the still miraculously functioning comms., just a hint of panic in her normally calm voice.

" _Hawkeye, report!"_ Steve called immediately after.

"Flash bomb," Clint grunted even as he was realizing what had happened. He shook his suddenly pounding head, blinking rapidly, but his vision was almost completely whited out. He swallowed the panic he felt. "Vision's been compromised."

" _Stay there, I'm on my way,"_ Natasha said.

"Well, I was going to go for a jog, but if you insist," Clint muttered sarcastically.

A string of Russian insults floated over the comms. and Clint couldn't help the small smile.

He felt exposed and tense as he waited for Natasha, trying his best to keep from panicking. He remained in his crouched position as he fiddled with his hearing aids to make sure the volume was as high up as it'd go, hoping he'd be able to hear if any other enemies made it to the roof before Natasha got there.

 _I'm dangerously close to becoming the deaf, dumb and blind guy_ , Clint thought dully to himself.

"On your six, Barton," came Natasha's voice just as he heard the door to the roof fly open.

Clint let out a relieved breath, immediately feeling his blood pressure lower with Natasha's presence with him on the roof. Carefully he pushed himself to his feet, reaching out to the small wall that surrounded the roof for stability. He felt Natasha approach him and was expecting the feel of fabric being tied around his head, a blindfold to prevent any further damage to his eyes until they could get medical attention.

This wasn't their first rodeo.

"All I got is my handgun," she said briskly, always one to get right down to business. "We're going to have to use your bow."

"Got it," Clint said as he turned back toward where he knew the ledge of the roof was.

He felt her hand on his back, gently positioning him. Then he loaded an arrow, nocking and drawing it in one smooth motion. Natasha wasn't able to draw his bow – no one at SHIELD could, because of his excessive draw weight which awarded him unheard of power from the weapon – so he would have to fire while she aimed.

Natasha pressed into his back, her chin hovering just above his shoulder in order to get the best aim that she could. Then she put a light hand on the back of his left hand which was braced on his riser in order to help her shift his aim.

"Now," she said, and Clint immediately released the bow string. She leaned away so that he could nock and draw another arrow and then she leaned back in, adjusting is aim slightly. "Now."

It was about the fourth arrow before there was another voice coming over the comms.

" _A little close for comfort, Romanoff,"_ Steve said, a little breathless.

"Not all of us see better at a distance, Rogers," Natasha shot back irritably.

"We need to move closer?" Clint asked, an arrow nocked loosely but not yet drawn.

There was a pause and Clint could feel Natasha's hair brush the back of his neck as she was turning her head to look around.

"No, this is going to be our best vantage point," she said. She tapped his shoulder. "Ready." Clint obediently drew the arrow. Natasha adjusted his aim. "Now."

" _It's finally happening,"_ Tony commented offhandedly over the comms. _"Barton and Romanoff are melding into a single terrifying entity."_

As Clint nocked another arrow, Natasha suddenly shifted his aim up, and he couldn't help but smirk, already knowing what she was doing as he listened to the roar from Iron Man's repulsors flying by.

"You might want to watch your mouth, Stark," Natasha warned.

"Now, Nat," Clint said, his tone bordering on a calming quality, despite where he was going with the statement. "Don't shoot Stark… with one of _those_ arrows. You need an explosive arrow to crack his armor. Aim for a joint."

" _If you're trying to convince me that you two aren't terrifying, you've epically failed,"_ Tony quipped.

" _Guys?"_ came Steve's tense voice. _"Can we maybe…_ FOCUS _?"_

"Just multi-tasking, Cap," Natasha said conversationally as she shifted Clint's aim back down to the battle below. "No need to get your All-American boxers bunched." She paused, adjusting Clint's aim slightly. "Now."

Clint smiled as he released another arrow.

The battle seemed to last an excessively long time, but Clint attributed that to the frustration of not being able to see anything. At long last, a gentle hand on his forearm indicated that he should lower his bow.

"We win?" Clint asked tiredly.

"Looks like it," Natasha confirmed. "C'mon, let's meet up with the rest of the team."

As Clint turned, he stumbled uncharacteristically, flinching at the hand suddenly on his arm. He groaned lowly in frustration, feeling horribly disoriented and exposed without his eyesight.

"Easy, Clint," Natasha said lowly. "It's most likely only temporary. Let's see if Dr. Banner is back yet and he can take a look."

Trust Natasha to be able to see through to what he was really thinking.

Clint walked a step behind Natasha, his hand just ghosting along her back to keep track of her as they headed back down the stairs and out of the building, heading for the rendezvous point. Clint consciously held his head up as they walked, trying to retain at least some of his dignity for when they met up with the rest of the team.

"Look everyone, it's William Tell!" Of course, he heard Tony's voice before anyone else's as they assumedly approached the rendezvous point. There was a beat of silence. "C'mon, anyone? William Tell? Shot an apple off his kid's head while blindfolded." Another pause. "I think. Wait, _was_ he blindfolded?"

"You okay, Barton?" came Steve's voice, as it seemed as a group they had decided to ignore Tony's rambling.

"I've had worse days, Cap," Clint admitted, but even he could hear the tension in his own tone.

"Hulk, any chance we could talk with Banner?" Natasha spoke up.

Great. Apparently, Bruce was still Hulked.

"Puny Banner," Hulk growled, the sound rumbling lowly through Clint's bones. Clint took an uneasy half step away from the source of the noise.

"Yes, but puny Banner has seven more Ph.D's than you do," Tony pointed out.

There was a roar and Clint felt the ground under his feet shift as the Hulk moved suddenly. There were several shouts that Clint couldn't quite place as well as Tony's panicked cursing. Clint's adrenaline spiked, taking another panicked step back as he gripped his bow tighter. He could sense rather than really feel Natasha throw her arm out in front of him, placing herself between him and the commotion.

"You're alright, Hulk is chasing Tony in the other direction," she told him quietly.

Despite the comfort, Clint suddenly felt like he was suddenly standing on the edge of the cliff.

He almost jumped out of his skin a moment later when Steve's voice suddenly came from right next to him. "Unfortunately, it looks like we're not going to get to talk to Dr. Banner for a while. Let's get back to the jet."

Feeling more worn and weary than he had even just a few minutes ago, Clint reached out and took hold of Natasha's forearm and let her lead him back to where they had left the Quinjet. He felt Steve fall in on his other side and he couldn't deny that it made him feel less exposed. As they made their way up the ramp of the jet, the metal floor was a comfort under his feet as he felt the tension in his muscles marginally relax.

"Here, there's a seat right behind you," Natasha told him gently, guiding him into the seat. "Can I check your eyes?"

Clint tiredly gave an inviting wave, giving his silent permission.

She carefully untied the cloth from his head and as she removed it, he kept his eyes closed for a moment. He took a couple steadying breaths before he gingerly blinked his eyes open. He was immensely grateful that someone had cut most of the lights in the jet, but even the minimal light caused him intense pain. He grimaced but kept blinking until he was able to blearily make out the dark blur of a person in front of him.

"Can you see anything?" Natasha questioned, a soft note of concern in her tone, her voice emanating from the blur in front of him.

"Dark blurs," Clint mumbled as he continued to blink. "Which is actually an improvement."

He heard Natasha sigh in relief. Despite her assurances, she had been worried too.

They lapsed into silence as they settled in to wait for Tony and Bruce to return. Clint shifted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes, knowing that would only make things worse. He knew from experience that all he could really do was wait for his eyes to recover, but that didn't make him any less impatient.

"You know, we appreciate what you do, Barton," Steve suddenly spoke up.

Clint blinked, his eyes ghosting in the general direction of Steve's voice. "What?"

"I'm just… not sure any of us have said it out loud," Steve went on as if he were realizing how true the statement was as he spoke. "You're one guy who has everybody's back in a fight. It's damn impressive. Just don't forget to watch your own back from time to time. Okay, Hawkeye?"

And Clint couldn't help but smile a little. "You got it, Cap."

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
** **FLASHBACK**


	27. Flashback

**Author's Note:** And we're back! This story has officially gone over 150 review and just let me tell you that's AMAZING! All the support on this story mean soooo much to me! Thank you to anyone who has reviewed so far! And extra thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter and helped me get to 156 reviews! **BrokenKestral** ; **white collar black wolf** ; **JRBarton** ; **YoungPrinceLou** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **Andrea** ; **Lesfont25** ; **anaticulapraecantrix** ; **TheRedScreech** ; and **Hedwig** , you are all wonderfully fantastic human beings! Thank you SO MUCH!

 _Quick disclaimer_ : There is quite a bit of sign language and flawed lip reading in this chapter. I am a hearing person, so all the translations are to the best of my googling abilities. Definitely open to corrections and/or feedback if anyone is fluent!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN  
** **FLASHBACK**

"Holy shit, how old are these things?" Tony demanded.

Clint rolled his eyes across the worktable at Tony. "These are my newest set, maybe a year old."

Tony looked down already tinkering with the small, specially designed SHIELD hearing aids. Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes when he noticed Tony's chin moving, a sign that he was talking. Clint leaned forward, snapping his fingers in front of Tony's nose obnoxiously in order to get his attention. Tony glared up at him, but the look melted as it dawned on him.

"You were saying?" Clint said pointedly now that he could read Tony's lips.

"Sorry," Tony said, rubbing the back of his head self-consciously. "I forgot. I was saying those SHIELD techs are amateurs. Give me a week and I can get these babies waterproofed and up the input at least 20%." He leaned back over the small devices but was careful to tilt his head back up when he spoke again. "How long have you had to wear hearing aids?"

"Long time," Clint said shortly.

"You lost your hearing on a SHIELD mission?" Tony asked.

"Yes." It wasn't something Clint liked talking about, even after all these years.

Tony nodded, sensing that Clint didn't want to talk about it as he focused back down on the aids, carefully beginning to disassemble the small pieces.

As Clint watched him he couldn't help but think back to years ago. Not only had it been a struggle to be cleared to be back in the field with his hearing loss but it had been a trying process for tech to come up with hearing aids that could withstand his job, something that had taken a mental toll on him back in the beginning.

It had been a time in his life that he wouldn't have gotten through without Phil Coulson.

* * *

 _Eleven Years Ago_

"You're lucky that I brought these useless pieces of shit back," Clint spat as he stomped down the ramp of the Quinjet and back into the base, throwing the hearing aids at Phil as he stormed passed.

He was a little surprised how far he made it down the hallway before he felt the hand on his arm. It was a good thing that he had been expecting it, allowing him to stifle the instinct to go on the offensive, if only barely. Still, he tried to pull his arm away and keep going, but Phil used the momentum to pull himself forward and into Clint's peripheral vision. He was leaning forward, his lips moving as he struggled to keep up.

"What?" Clint finally snapped as he stopped and turned to better face Phil.

Phil pointed to himself, then tapped his pursed fingertips to the side of his forehead, pointed at Clint and then placed the edge of his open hand diagonally on his chest and moved it up in front of his mouth.

 _I know you're frustrated_

Each movement was slow but steady. Clint couldn't help but be a little impressed. Phil wasn't the fastest study when it came to sign language, after all he was a busy guy and didn't exactly have a lot of time left over for studying a whole new language. But the fact that he had strung together a whole sentence showed how hard he had been working at it lately.

"You really don't know the half of it," Clint threw back at him. He made no effort to regulate his speech, had no idea how the words were coming out and was having a hard time finding the will to care.

"—ey," Phil spoke as Clint read his lips. When Clint really concentrated, he had practically an inhuman ability to read lips and could catch pretty much every word. But in his current state he was having a hard time focusing. Phil circled his pointer fingers around each other and then move his hands outward with his thumbs and pointers extended in L shapes. _Sign language_. Phil flashed a strained smile. "It –elps," he made a fist with his thumb up and tapped it in his opposite palm, _Help_. "…me –earn." He placed his fingers of his right hand on his opposite palm and then lifted the hand place his fingers on his forehead. _Learn_.

Clint had to take a deep breath and put together what he gathered through lip reading and Phil's sign language.

 _'Hey, use sign language. It helps me learn.'_

Clint sighed. No one could deny that Phil was trying. It made it difficult to remain angry, but Clint was always one for a challenge.

"What do you want me to say?" Clint asked, speaking and signing at the same time.

"You –new," he pointed at Clint and then tapped his pursed fingertips to the side of his forehead, "this was –onna be a process." He squeezed his fingers together on each hand and then tapped his fingertips together. _More._

Clint shook his head. "That's the sign for more," he told him as he mimicked the sign. Then he held his hands open with his palms facing in and then circled them outward. "This is process."

Clint waited as Phil carefully mirrored the gesture before he went on angrily.

"This is the fourth hearing aid that crapped out on me in the middle of a mission. You got any idea what it's like to have your hearing go out when you're surrounded by people trying to kill you? It's a fucking miracle I made it out of there without getting shot!" His signing was fast and a little sloppy, but he couldn't bring himself to care that Phil probably wasn't able to keep up.

"—kay, —kay," Phil said, abandoning the sign language for a moment. He motioned toward one side of the hallway, where there was a door. "Let's go – he–."

Clint huffed as he followed Phil into the empty briefing room, not caring that it made him seem like a child. He shoved the door closed behind him and although he couldn't hear the noise it made, he could feel it vibrate through the floor under his feet, which made him feel marginally better.

Phil was moving further into the room, his back to him but Clint could see his chin was moving. He was speaking.

"Hey," Clint said sharply, feeling his temper flare. As Phil turned in surprise to face him, Clint threw his hands out and tossed him a look that practically screamed ' _what the actual fuck, Phil._ ' Phil of all people should know better than to do that do him.

"Oh, sorry, sorry," Phil said quickly, placing a fist on his chest and moving it clockwise in the sign for ' _sorry_ ,' as he turned to more fully face him. "Sorry, I forgot." He put his four fingers in front of his forehead and then moved them to the side while closing his hand into a fist. _Forget_.

"How nice that you have the luxury to forget," Clint growled as he signed quickly. He glanced around. "Why are we in here, anyway?"

"Your voice," he took his first two fingers and moved them up his throat, "was getting loud," he raised both his hands to either side of his head, pointed at his ears and then made fists, "and it was echoing," Phil told him. He paused. "What's the sign for echo?"

Clint pointed at his ear with one hand, then bounced his finger tip off of his open palm in front of him, annoyed but not enough to deny Phil an answer. After all, as far as he knew, Phil was the only one bothering to learn sign language. Clint could get by with reading lips, but it took a lot of effort and wasn't an exact science, especially when people didn't enunciate well. Communicating completely with sign language when he didn't have his hearing aids in would be much easier for him.

"Like I can tell what my voice is doing," Clint grumbled.

Phil gave him a sympathetic look. "I know," he pointed at himself and then then tapped his pursed fingertips to the side of his forehead, "you can't. That's why we came in here." He paused, his hands hovering awkwardly in front of him. He looked guilty. "Sorry." He signed the word as he spoke it. "I don't know how to sign any of those words."

Clint sighed. He couldn't help it, he felt the anger draining out of him at Phil's guilt. None of this was his fault, after all.

"Don't worry about it," Clint said as he signed, his hands moving slower and steadier than they had been before, more conscious of Phil trying to follow along. He leaned back, half sitting on the table behind him as he suddenly felt tired. "You're doing well considering you've only been at this for a couple weeks."

"Clint, we are going to figure this out," Phil said. "I promise." He paused. "How do you sign that?"

Clint sighed. "We," he drew wide 'U' shape on one side of his chest with his pointer finger, "figure," he put out his first two fingers on each hand and tapped his wrists together in an 'X' formation, "this," he tapped the pointer finger of his left hand into the open palm of his right, "out," he moved his hand diagonally in front of him, closing his fingers in the process.

Phil carefully mimicked each gesture, and then put them all together. He paused, looking at Clint expectantly.

"What about the promise?" he prodded.

Clint couldn't help the ghost of a smile that played at his lips. "I," he pointed at himself, "promise," he put his pointer finger to his mouth and then moved his hand to put his open palm on the closed fist of his opposite hand.

Phil mimicked the gesture, taking a few tries to coordinate both hands. And once he got it, he looked up and met Clint's gaze as he firmly and steadily repeated the two gestures, not bothering to move his mouth as he let the signs speak for themselves.

 _I promise._

* * *

 _Present Day_

"Can you manage a few days without them?" Tony asked, bringing Clint back to the present.

"Yeah, that's fine," Clint said. "Just don't break them."

"When I get done, you'll never know how you lived without my genius," Tony said with an arrogant smirk.

Clint rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he turned and headed out of Tony's lab.

God, he missed Phil Coulson. Even a year later it was still painful to think about how he had lost Phil so suddenly and violently. Clint still found himself checking his phone for Phil's messages or waking in a panic from a nightmare and immediately searching for Phil's comforting presence. The loss was still a hole that had been gouged in his chest, a wound that would become manageable with time but would never really heal.

But Phil's support had molded him into the man that he was today. And that wasn't something he could lose.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
BROKEN BONE**


	28. Broken Bone

**Author's Note:** Hello everyone! I can't believe how far we've come! I so appreciate all the support, especially for the last chapter! It was nice to have a visit from Phil, I've missed him, haha! Now time for my favorites! **Valkyrie Black Water** ; **JRBarton** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **white collar black wolf** ; **Reagangirl** ; **Lesfont25** ; **anaticulapraecantrix** ; **sofiarose613** ; and **BrokenKestral** are my All Stars! Seriously, you guys are the reason I work so hard to make these stories as good as they can be! You guys rock!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT  
BROKEN BONE  
**

" _Widow, we need your help."_

Natasha ducked under a blow that could have separated her head from her shoulders, lunging forward and digging an elbow into the man's gut, eliciting a choking yelp. She slid low and under another wild punch in order to get behind the man. In the next moment she had swung her knees up to clamp on either side of the man's head and then threw her weight to bring the larger man crashing down, twisting in the process.

His neck snapped, and he was dead before he hit the ground.

"Little busy here, Cap," Natasha gasped into the comm. as she was springing to her feet, ready for the next bout with the seemingly endless army.

Gunfire erupted, passing so close that she could feel the air around her shifting. She dove for cover behind a nearby abandoned car, drawing her sidearm so that she could return fire.

" _Widow, it's Hawk, he's down."_

All the air left her lungs in a rush.

"Stark, I need cover fire," Natasha snapped.

" _Why am I the only one who doesn't get a code name?"_ Stark quipped even as she heard his repulsors roaring overhead.

She didn't bother wasting any breath on Stark's ego, making a break from behind the car as soon as she heard his cover fire.

"What's your location, Cap?" she demanded even as she was already at a dead run.

He gave it to her, siting a street just two blocks over. The small town had been overrun by an extensive drug and weapons trafficking operation, possibly the largest and more elaborate in the world. The Avengers had managed to quietly evacuate the innocent bystanders before challenging operation, intent on winning back the town for the residents. The situation had quickly devolved into a war zone, with far more hostiles than they had anticipated. They were woefully outnumbered with the six of them taking on what was essentially an army.

It took longer than it should have as Natasha had to fight her way over to their location and while also strategically giving Hulk's rampage a wide berth. When she finally came around the corner to the spot that Steve had given her, her gaze zeroed in on Clint immediately. He was on his knees next to the wall of one of the buildings, one hand braced on the ground in front of him and the other cradled up against his side. His bow lay abandoned next to him.

Clint Barton didn't drop his bow in the middle of a battle. That alone told Natasha how bad it was.

Steve was positioned protectively in front of Clint, but he was dangerously close to being overrun, the hostiles desperate to exploit Hawkeye's weakness. Natasha led with her sidearm, taking out men with well placed shots to the back of the head, catching most of them completely off guard.

"What's the damage?" she demanded as she finally reached Steve, sliding in next to him and turning her back to Clint. They needed an opening before she could look at him.

"He took a hard hit," Steve said tensely, whipping his shield to take out three hostiles while leveling another with a punch like a sledgehammer. "Haven't been able to assess the damage."

"Barton, give me a number, one to ten," Natasha called back to him.

It was a common question between the two of them to quickly assess injuries in a tense situation, rating injuries with a number from one to ten. Natasha glanced back at him between shots to see that he had gingerly uncurled his hand from his side and was holding it up, palm out. His ring finger was curled down under his thumb, the other three fingers extended. Sign language for the number eight.

Considering Clint's propensity for significantly rounding down when it came to this question – he once took a bullet to the hip and called it a high six – that high of a number was more than a little concerning.

It was several agonizingly long minutes later before Natasha and Steve managed to take down the hostiles in the immediate area, finally giving Natasha a window to turn and drop to a knee next to Clint. She immediately scanned him, looking for injuries. But strangely, she couldn't see anything that could be causing his current condition.

"What's the damage, Clint?" she asked.

For a long moment she was afraid that he wasn't going to answer. Finally, he shifted his head slightly in her direction, his eyes steeling as he gathered up the energy to speak.

"Pretty sure…" He forcibly sucked in a wheezing, rattling breath. "I gotta rib…" Another painful, labored breath. "In my lung…"

"Does he need med evac?" Steve asked, glancing back over his shoulder at them before going back to scanning their surroundings, looking for the next threat.

"There's no where to evac him to, Cap," Natasha pointed out tersely.

"I could get him back to the jet," Steve pressed.

"Moving him isn't going to be a good idea with this many hostiles still in the area. One wrong move and another broken rib could shift into his other lung and then we'd be in real trouble."

"We're not in _real_ trouble right now?" Steve asked as he sent her a skeptical look.

"Not yet," Natasha said distractedly as she carefully helped Clint shift so that he was sitting leaning up against the wall of the building behind them.

Clint hissed painfully through the process, leaning heavily up against the wall. Natasha went right to work, her fingers fumbling uncharacteristically as she undid the clasps of his bulletproof jacket. No matter how many times she had to do this, it never got easier having her partner's life in her hands in the middle of a mission like this. As she shifted the weight of the jacket he gave a small, relieved sigh as it likely made it a little easier for him to heave the necessary air into his lungs. She pulled up his shirt, distracted for a moment by the grotesque purples and blues that already painted his torso before she zeroed in on the right side of the chest and how it bulged unnaturally.

Definitely a collapsed lung, likely sending air and blood into his chest cavity. They needed to take care of that before it got even harder for Clint to breathe.

"We've got incoming," Steve announced, shifting to stand more squarely between the two assassins and the approaching hostiles.

Natasha pivoted to put her back to the wall, bringing her gun to bare in one hand while she reached for her comm. with the other.

"Stark, I need you to get a chest tube kit from the med pack in the jet," she instructed even as she fired on the incoming hostiles.

" _I dunno if you guys are having a picnic over there or what, but I really don't have time to be running errands at the moment,"_ came Tony's tense voice.

"Make time," Natasha snapped.

"Thor, what's our status on taking down this army?" Steve asked.

" _Their numbers dwindle,"_ Thor announced, already sounding triumphant. _"Victory is at hand!"_

It was several agonizingly long minutes before they finally heard Iron Man's approach.

"Special delivery!" he called down to Steve as he swooped by, dropping the package from several feet overhead and immediately jetting away.

Steve reached up and easily caught the package in one hand while throwing his shield with the other. In the same movement he flipped the package over to Natasha.

"Here," Natasha said, holding out her gun to Clint as she snatched the package out of the air above her head with her free hand.

It was done with no more words passed between the two. Clint took the gun with his left hand, wincing painfully as he lifted it and aimed it over Natasha's shoulder as she turned her back completely to the fight so that she could focus on the task at hand. Despite his serious injury, she knew without a doubt that Clint had her six. She didn't so much as flinch as he fired off shots right next to her ear, trusting that he would keep her safe while she worked. It was significantly more ideal for Clint to be laying down for this, but she needed him watching her back so that she could focus on keeping him alive.

She tore a slit up the side of his shirt to give her easier access to his injury. Then she ripped open the sterilized package containing the tools that she would need. Even though the environment was laughably unhygienic and the chance of infection was damn near guaranteed, Natasha still took the extra few seconds to run an antiseptic wipe over the area. Force of habit more than anything.

 _Infection is better than dead._ It was a mantra that had to be drilled into them when learning about performing first aid in the field.

Her hands moved without much conscious thought, the procedure drilled into her after countless hours practicing over and over like so many other life-saving first aid skills. The endless lessons and drills were more than necessary considering the kind of situations that she and Clint regularly walked into with no backup but each other.

Clint lifted his right arm without being asked and fisted his hand into his hair in an attempt to keep himself still during what he knew would be a painful procedure without the luxury of anesthetic. Natasha grabbed the scalpel from the kit with one hand, locating the correct spot between his ribs with the other. Firmly and while determinedly ignoring the tightening of her partner's features, Natasha sliced a three-centimeter incision into his chest. Next was the Kelly clamp, pushing it into the incision with some force, not acknowledging the choking groan that accompanied the popping feeling of the clamp entering the pleural space.

She really should have checked the incision with her finger, but her hands were nowhere near sanitary, so she had to take it on faith that she had it in the correct space and there were no impediments that would get in the way of the chest tube. And with broken ribs, that was a big assumption to make. But there was no time to dwell on it.

Clint's left arm was wavering, but he continued to fire periodically, protecting her while she worked, his eyes cold and determined.

After she removed the clamp, the chest tube went next. She pinched the loose end of the tube firmly closed as she inserted it into the incision, pushing it all the way into his chest cavity. Finally, she released the end of the tube, not bothering with hooking it up to a collection bag. It wasn't like there weren't already bodily fluids staining the streets of this town.

As the blood and air exited Clint's chest cavity, his left arm dropped as he gasped and groaned, any adrenaline that had been keeping him going leaving him in the span of the breath.

Natasha grabbed the gun from his hand as he dropped it. She flicked the safety back off, knowing that Clint would have automatically flipped it on when he felt his arm failing, the action as instinctually ingrained into him as breathing. In the same motion, she spun on her heels, putting her back to Clint and bringing the gun to bare, ready to take on the rest of the hostiles.

It took a beat longer than it should have for her to comprehend that instead of the enemy army, she came face to face with Steve, Tony, Thor and a de-Hulked Bruce, all standing there and looking at her with various levels of awe and confusion in their features.

Natasha let out a measured breath as she slowly dropped her gun.

"Did we win?" she asked, blinking at the group in front of her uncertainly.

"Yes, all hostiles are confirmed dead or taken into custody," Steve reported, but there was a strange detached quality to his voice.

So then why were they just standing around? But she didn't get the chance to pose the question.

"Did you just casually perform surgery on Barton in the middle of a battle?" Tony demanded, retracting his faceplate.

She glanced back at Clint as if to be sure they were seeing what she was. Because the way that the rest of the team were looking at them seemed to imply that they were more in awe of what had happened than they should have been. Clint was still leaning back heavily against the wall, his eyelids heavy but still watching the scene in front of him with the same amount of guarded bewilderment as Natasha felt.

"His broken rib punctured a lung," Natasha explained as she turned back to the group. "It was sending air and blood into his chest cavity, collapsing his lung. The pressure needed to be relieved or he was going to stop breathing."

"You a doctor now, Romanoff?" Tony asked skeptically.

"I am when my partner's life is on the line," she snapped.

Finally, the spell seemed to be broken as Bruce finally moved forward, dropping to a knee next to her and inspecting her work.

"This is remarkable," Bruce said, unmasked surprise in his tone. "Textbook placement." He looked at her. "How many times have you done this?"

"Twice in the field. Did countless training drills on cadavers over the years though."

"Okay, but are we not gonna talk about the fact that Barton didn't so much as twitch as Romanoff was shoving a rod into his chest _and_ he kept shooting people the whole time?" Tony said, clearly unable to get his mind around what he had witnessed.

"Can't always call a time out in the middle of a mission, Stark," Natasha pointed out dryly.

"Okay, we need to secure the chest tube, get him to the jet and get him on oxygen," Bruce cut in, all business. "He still needs medical attention."

Natasha turned back and helped Bruce wrap where the tube entered Clint's chest with gauze from the kit and then carefully secured it in place with medical tape. Clint vehemently refused being carried back to the jet, so Bruce carefully helped him up onto unsteady feet and Thor moved in on his other side to help him carefully stumbled along.

Tony led the way back to the jet while Natasha and Steve fell in behind the group.

"That was impressive," Steve commented.

Natasha glanced at him. "We spent five years as a two-person Strike Team with Coulson as our handler. The places we were sent were places where SHIELD couldn't be found. We didn't get med evacs, we didn't get rescue missions. We were each other's only back up. We had to learn quickly how to keep each other going until the mission was complete. It's how we've managed to survive this long."

Steve nodded his understanding, sympathy passing through his gaze.

Strike Team Delta had died with Phil Coulson. That had been an immediate, unspoken understanding between Natasha and Clint. But even as members of the Avengers, the two assassins couldn't let go of the ingrained habits of a two-person Strike Team. Not that they would ever really want to. They would keep each other going for as long as they could, piecing each other back together mentally and physically time and time again. After all, they were the most painfully human on the team, setting them apart from the super soldier, the god, the man in the high-tech metal armor and the Hulk. But there was one fact that they would always be able to rely on no matter what.

The Black Widow and Hawkeye were always stronger together.

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
DRUGGED**


	29. Drugged

**Author's Note:** Okay, I'm a wee bit sleep deprived, so this is going to be short and sweet! Thank you so much to **JRBarton** ; **sofiarose613** ; **Nadarhem** ; and **anaticulapraecantrix** for taking the time to review the last chapter! It means so much to me! You guys are amazing!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE  
** **DRUGGED**

"A _sword_ , really?" Clint grunted sarcastically as he parried the blow from the snarling man with his bow. "What is this, the Middle Ages?"

" _Barton, just checking, you still playing with that bow and arrow?_ " Tony's voice came over the comms.

"A _sophisticated_ bow and arrow!" Clint shot back as he narrowly avoided another blow.

The Avengers had infiltrated a compound for an organization that had been an offshoot of Hydra. This had been originally intended to be a stealth mission simply to obtain information, but when they discovered the scientists working here were dangerously close to finishing several extremely potent bio-weapons, it was decided immediate action needed to be taken. Natasha, Bruce – hopefully remaining de-Hulked – and Thor were tasked with infiltrating the lower levels of the compound where the labs were in order to disarm any potential weapons and capture the scientists. Tony, Steve and Clint were tasked with clearing out the guards that were patrolling the upper levels before heading down to rendezvous with the others in the labs.

Unfortunately, they had underestimated the extensive protection these scientists had gathered for themselves. Tony, Steve and Clint were quickly forced to separate and clear three separate sectors of the compound to keep the henchmen from storming the lower levels where the others were.

" _Guys, be careful of the guards with swords,_ " Natasha's voice came over the comms. next.

"Genius deduction, Widow," Clint snapped sarcastically as he dodged low, narrowly avoiding the sword taking off his head. "What would we do without you?"

Admittedly, Clint was starting to feel the fatigue of a mission gone on too long. He was relieved that this was almost over as he went face-to-face with the last guard that had been patrolling his sector, but the bastard was clearly not going to go down easily. That would have been far too convenient.

Clint pivoted to avoid the backswing, but his boot momentarily stuck on the concrete, wrenching his knee and leaving him in the direct path to take that blade to the stomach. He threw himself backward and just barely avoided the direct hit, but he still took a shallow cut to his side. He grunted with the sting of pain but now with the distance of him sliding backwards, he was able to nock an arrow and send it flying, sinking into the hostile's neck. The man collapsed into a bloody heap.

As Clint sucked in a relieved breath, he realized there had been chatter on the comm. line that he hadn't comprehended while trying not to get sliced in half.

"What was that, Nat?" he asked.

" _We found evidence of contact poisons down here in the labs,_ " Natasha said, with an air of having _just_ said this. " _It looks like they've been experimenting with putting the poison on the blades. Even a shallow cut could be deadly._ "

Clint pressed his hand to his side, wincing even before he pulled it away and saw the blood.

"Uhh," Clint hummed unsteadily, replacing his hand against the wound with a grimace. "Any idea what the poison does?"

" _Hard to say,_ " came Bruce's voice over the comms. " _We'll have to take it back to the Tower and test it._ "

"Well, we might be finding out a little quicker than that," Clint said with a nervous laugh.

" _Clint, what did you do?_ " Natasha demanded sharply.

"Hey, _I_ didn't do anything!" Clint defended. "It was the guy who stabbed me!"

" _You got yourself stabbed, Barton?_ " Tony asked.

" _Tony, finish up and rendezvous down in the labs with the others, see if you can make anything of what they were making down there,_ " Steve said, almost talking over Tony. " _Barton, I've cleared my sector and I'm on my way to your location,_ "

"Probably a good idea," Clint said, suddenly feeling short of breath.

A minute later, Steve came bursting through the door, skidding to a stop at the sight of Clint still in a crouch, one hand braced on the floor and the other pressed against his side.

"Easy, Barton," Steve said, putting up his hands and moving toward him slowly as if he were approaching a frightened animal.

"Yeah, good thinkin', Cap," Clint said between gasps of air, sarcasm dripping off every word. He couldn't help it, it was his defense mechanism. "Don't move too quickly or you might startle the poison running through my veins."

He didn't miss the subtle way that Steve rolled his eyes before hurrying over to him and crouching down next to him. Clint carefully peeled back his hand so that Steve could see the wound.

"It doesn't look too bad," Steve told him. "How do you feel?"

"Like I just ran a marathon," Clint admitted.

"What's our status?" Steve asked the rest of the team.

" _Evil mad scientists have been rounded up and captured. They are currently being packaged up with a pretty bow for INTERPOL,_ " Tony reported. " _Banner has collected anything he deemed useful from the lab and now Thor and Romanoff are commencing trashing the lab to prevent any future experiments._ "

"Good," Steve said relieved. "I'll get Barton to the jet and meet you guys there." He released his comm. as he turned his attention back to Clint. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah, yeah," Clint panted as he painfully pushed himself up from the floor, swaying unsteadily when he came to full height, causing Steve to reach out to steady him. Clint's muscles all suddenly pulsed with a dull ache. "I feel mostly okay. Maybe it's one of those fun poisons that's not too terrible."

Steve snorted a laugh. "Yeah, okay. Let's get you back to the jet, tough guy."

Clint took a couple stumbling steps before Steve took his arm, steadying him. Grudgingly, Clint allowed the help, noticing that he did feel pretty dizzy anyway and could probably use the support. They made their way back out through the compound and Clint did his best to ignore the way that it felt like his feet were getting heavier and the pain was crawling up the back of his skull. When Steve shifted to put Clint's arm over his shoulders in order to better support him, Clint put up no resistance, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get off his feet.

"Hang in there, Barton," Steve said as they exited the compound. "We're almost there."

Clint's knees chose that moment to develop a sense of irony and give out. He thought he heard a less than stellar term come out of Steve's All-American mouth as the sudden shift almost toppled them both, but suddenly it was hard to hear anything over the pounding in his head. It was as he reached a hand up to brace his head – as if that would do any good at all – that he noticed he was shaking.

"Easy, I got you," Steve assured him, but his tone was tense.

Clint was immensely grateful that no one else was around to witness Captain America scooping him up into his arms like a child and carrying him the rest of the way to the jet.

As Steve carefully set Clint down on a cot in the designated med area of the jet, the pain rocketed to a whole new level. Not only did it feel like knives were digging into his brain, but suddenly all the muscles in his body were contracting painfully around his bones. With an effort – as well an embarrassing, involuntary whine of pain – he pushed himself onto his uninjured side so that he could curl in on himself in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure.

As Steve carefully bandaged up his side, Clint focused on just existing and trying not to cry out every time pain pulsed through his body. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breath through it, but it was like trying to breathe through a straw.

 _Am I dying?_ he couldn't help but wonder dully as it felt like his veins were filled with fire.

This was not the way that he imagined he would leave this world.

"What's his status?" came Bruce's tense voice.

Clint curled in tighter on himself as suddenly there was a commotion in the enclosed space as the rest of the Avengers joined them. He sensed a familiar presence near him as Natasha crouched at the head of the cot. He felt his partner's hand on his forehead, knowing that tactile proof of life was as much of a comfort to her as it was to him. At her touch, his defenses lowered slightly and a groan of pain escaped his throat.

"I bandaged the wound, it seems fairly superficial," Steve reported, but his tone was grim. "He seemed okay at first, just out of breath. He walked about halfway here on his own, but then started dragging his feet. He was reaching for his head a lot too and squinting. He collapsed maybe ten minutes ago just outside the jet and that's when the tremors started. His breathing has also been getting more labored."

"It feels like he's got a fever too," Natasha interjected.

"It's progressing quickly," Bruce said worriedly.

Just then Clint felt the jet rumble to life underneath him, Tony assumedly taking the pilot's seat in Clint's absence.

"Can't we give him something to help with the pain?" Natasha demanded as Clint tightened in on himself as another wave pushed the pain to yet another level he hadn't thought was possible.

"It's too risky to give him anything until we know what kind of drug we're dealing with," Bruce said apologetically. "We don't know how it will react in the system if we give him more drugs right now."

"Well, what _can_ we do?" Natasha asked sharply.

There was a shuffling noise.

"Here, get this on him," Bruce said.

Something was placed over his nose and mouth. He felt panic for a moment until he realized it had gotten marginally easier to breathe. _Oxygen_ , he realized belatedly as he relaxed into the mask as best he could.

"I need to draw some blood," Bruce said. "We've got some equipment here that I can use to start analyzing his blood, so we can at least narrow down the type of poison. Also, we need to keep him calm. The more worked up he is, the faster the poison is going to spread in his system."

"Hear that, Clint?" Natasha said softly, her hand resting comfortably on his temple. "Bruce is going to take some blood. Just hang in there."

Clint reached up his hand to rest on top of Natasha's hand, taking comfort in her presence and trying to draw from her strength. Then he shifted his other arm out from under him, allowing Bruce access.

"At least he's still coherent," Steve observed dismally.

He barely felt the prick of the needle in his arm, a small annoyance next to the fact that it felt like he had fire burning through his veins and his skull was trying to collapse in on his brain.

Clint retreated deep within himself, letting the waves of pain wash over him and doing his best to focus on his breathing, though he knew his breath hitched painfully more and more. He wound his fingers around Natasha's hand, using it to ground himself, allowing her soft words on encouragement to filter through to him.

It seemed like an eternity had passed before Bruce had analyzed enough of the poison to determine what kind of medicine was most likely safe to give him.

"This should help make you more comfortable until we can figure out an antidote," Bruce told him sympathetically as Clint watched him blearily through half lidded eyes.

Clint watched the needle enter his arm, feeling strangely detached from the situation all of a sudden. It took a minute, but finally the pain began to dull. Black spots pushed in from his peripheral vision, and when the darkness took over, he welcomed it.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Don't worry, the next prompt is a direct continuation of this situation! Tune in next week to see what happens! Don't forget to leave a review!

* * *

 **NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:  
WITHDRAWAL**


	30. Withdrawal

**Author's Note:** Hello, I'm back! Thank you so much to all the excitement for the last chapter! **JRBarton** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **m klindt** ; **BrokenKestral** ; **Hedwig** ; **Lesfont25** ; and **anaticulapraecantrix** for taking the time to review! No rambling let's get right into what happens next!

* * *

 **CHAPTER THIRTY  
** **WITHDRAWAL**

Every single movement, no matter how minor, was pure agony. Each breath felt like fire in his lungs. Every few minutes his entire body would be rocked by spasms that made it feel like his own muscles were trying to snap his bones. On the rare occasions he would pry his eyes open the world appeared only as blurred colors that would tilt violently around him until he squeezed his eyes shut again.

"He's still in pain." Natasha's sharp voice was a comfort, grounding him and reminding him that the world around him was still real.

"I can't give him any more pain meds, it'll overdose him." Bruce's voice was so low, Clint could barely hear it. But listening was the only thing he was able to do anymore.

Clint's breath hitched once… twice. It was the only warning he ever got. If there was any way to brace himself, he would have. But as his muscles tensed and twisted, there wasn't anything he could do but retreat deep within his own mind and attempt to endure the waves of pain as they intensified to new, horrifically excruciating levels. He curled in tighter on himself, his knees now pressing into his abdomen as what little grasp he had on the world around him slipped away.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he started to feel the infirmary bed underneath him again, could feel the hand that was holding his. His throat was raw. Had he been screaming?

"We have to do _something_!" Natasha said, panic and desperation cracking in her voice.

"What are our options?" Steve was ever the voice of reason. But was there tension in his tone? Did he sound grim?

"We need to know what was in that drug," Bruce said. "There's a factor that I still can't identify."

"We tried that, I spent hours in that interrogation room, the scientists aren't saying anything," Steve said tiredly.

The hand that had been holding Clint's suddenly disappeared.

"I'll get them to talk."

There was quick shifting in the room.

"Natasha, we need them all _alive_."

"I'm not gonna kill them, I'm just gonna beat it out of them."

"I'm thinking the Russian assassin may not be in the right frame of mind for this delicate task." Even Tony's sarcasm sounded grim.

"I will do it then."

"No, Thor," Steve commanded with another shuffling sound. Apparently, he didn't think Thor would have any more restraint than Natasha in his state either.

"Steve, he's gonna _die_ if we don't do something," Natasha snapped. "I'm not going to just sit here and watch!"

"I might have an idea."

Bruce's thoughtful statement was the last thing that Clint heard before he was dragged back down into oblivion.

* * *

"You said he'd be waking up soon."

"I said that he _could_ wake up soon. His vitals have stabilized, but his body is exhausted. He'll wake up when he's ready."

"I don't think patience is Romanoff's strong suit, Doc... _Ow_!"

Clint could just picture Natasha smacking Tony upside the head and let out a light snort.

There was a beat of silence. And then, "Did that bastard just _laugh_ at me while he's unconscious?"

A slender hand slipped into Clint's squeezing it gently. "Clint? Can you hear me?"

"'m I dead?"

It seemed like a logical question to him as he mumbled it. Because for the first time it didn't feel like his body was being put through a wood chipper. He ached down to his bones and his brain felt like it was bumping into his skull with the smallest movement but compared to the pain he had been consumed by before it was a minor annoyance.

"No, you're not dead," Natasha assured him.

"Not for lack of effort. _Ow_ , sonofabitch, you'd think I'd see that coming."

"You'd think," Bruce agreed with a laugh.

Taking a risk, Clint carefully squinted his eyes open. The light burned his eyes, but it wasn't nearly as excruciating as it had been. The blurs around him had a floating quality to them, but it wasn't nearly the roller coaster it had been.

Clint blinked a few times before he was able to focus on Natasha sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. He shifted his gaze, taking in Bruce checking some of the machines at the bedside and then Tony sitting in a chair with his feet up at the end of Clint's bed. Clint shifted his focus to himself. He was still curled on his side, IVs in his arm, heart monitor beeping steadily, oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

"Wha' happened?" he murmured.

"Banner managed to pull off a last second miracle," Tony said. "I personally think he knew the whole time and he just wanted to be overdramatic. You know, the whole flatlining heart monitor, brink of death climatic moment."

Tony ducked away as he anticipated Natasha taking another swing at him. He hadn't anticipated Natasha kicking out the legs of his chair and sending him clattering to the floor with a yelp of surprise.

"You brought that on yourself, Tony," Bruce pointed out mildly as Tony cursed as he tried to untangle himself from the chair. Bruce shifted his attention to Clint. "We managed to synthesize an antidote to the poison. The problem was that any time that we started to clear the poison from your system, you'd get worse instead of better. I started to look at it a different way. We did a few experiments and figured out that your body had become dependent on the poison that was killing you. It was basically a lose-lose situation. It seemed like we couldn't get rid of the poison that was killing you without killing you. It was really an ingenious design."

"You can sound a little less impressed, Doc," Clint murmured with a breathy laugh.

"Sorry," Bruce said sheepishly. "Anyway, we changed our approach. Instead of trying to cure you all at once, we have to wean you off slowly."

"So," Clint paused as his muddled mind tried to grasp what Bruce was saying. "I'm still poisoned?"

"Just a little," Tony interjected as he settled back into his righted chair. "I believe we can safely downgrade you from excessively poisoned to above-average poisoned."

"You'll still have symptoms," Bruce went on as if Tony hadn't spoken. "We'll have to manage them as they come while we slowly get the poison out of your system."

Clint winced as he felt pain clawing his way up the back of his skull. Natasha tightened her grip on his hand.

"Here comes another one," she said tensely.

"These will happen periodically," Bruce explained as he busied himself with something at the bedside. "They'll improved with time. I've got a mixture of the antidote and the original poison that I'm going to administer. Over time we'll be able to wean the poison down until it's completely out of your system."

Clint could only hum painfully, and it felt like his brain was suddenly swelling inside of his skull.

"Shall we take bets on if he remembers this conversation next time he wakes up?" Tony asked mildly.

"He was coherent for longer this time," Natasha said hopefully.

"He's getting better," Bruce assured softly. "It's just going to take time." He raised his voice. "Okay, Clint. You'll feel a pinch."

Clint watched blearily as Bruce inserted a syringe into his bicep. He squeezed his eyes shut as the pain pulsed. The fire was back. The agony was back. He couldn't escape it.

* * *

Withdrawal was a bitch. Clint decided that early on without much debate at all. It had been almost constant for the first couple days, the nausea, headaches and body tremors consuming the short periods in which he was able to find consciousness.

But slowly, things finally started to improve. He was able to spend time awake without severe pain. The episodes became more bearable, not necessarily sending him into oblivion every time. A week after they figured out the antidote, Clint was able to be up and moving around the infirmary in the Tower for short periods of time.

The other Avengers took turns sitting with Clint so that they could administer the shot when Clint had an episode. There was a schedule so that Clint was never left on his own. On the one hand, this was preferable to being left in the hands of doctors and nurses that he didn't know or trust. But on the other hand, he was quickly becoming restless and was starting to resent the constant babysitting.

It took a week and a half before he had finally had enough. And Tony Stark was the logical accomplice to get him the hell out of the infirmary.

"Uh oh," Tony said mildly, his gaze flicking to where his phone was vibrating on his work stand. "I believe we've been had."

Clint glanced at him. "Nat?"

"She's not even supposed to be on duty for two more hours," Tony griped. "What, does she have a tracker on you?"

"I wouldn't put it past her," Clint said with a chuckle, his eyes steadily on the small soldering gun in his hand as he melded two pieces of metal together. He shifted on his stool, both elbows braced heavily on the work stand. There was a pause as the phone continued to buzz. "You know there'll be hell to pay if you don't pick up that phone."

"Yeah, I know," Tony admitted with a sigh. He placed the screwdriver he was working with in his mouth, tapped the speakerphone function on his phone before grabbing the screwdriver again and going right back to work. "Tony Stark, how may I direct your call?"

"Stark, where the _hell_ are you?" came Natasha's agitated voice.

"Just getting a little work done, nothing to worry about," Tony placated.

"Where is Clint?" Natasha demanded.

"He's right here, no worse for the wear, I promise," Tony said.

Clint shot Tony a smirk which Tony rolled his eyes at.

"He's not supposed to be out of the infirmary," Natasha snapped.

"He's fine, the guy needed to stretch his legs a bit," Tony assured her. "He's got a couple hours between his overly dramatic episodes now, he probably won't even have one during my shift. In any case, there's nothing in the infirmary that I can't do down here."

"Stark—" Natasha started.

"I've got a cot set up down here nice and cozy if he has an episode and his medicine here locked and loaded, ready to go," Tony cut in. "The guy was going stir crazy in that hospital bed, Romanoff, you know as well as I do he was only a couple hours away from a pulling his own jail break. At least this way he's still under supervision."

It was Clint's turn to roll his eyes.

A heavy sigh floated across the line.

"Stark, if anything happens to him…" She let the threat hang.

"Romanoff take a break, put your feet up, sip some vodka," Tony said. "I'll deliver Barton back to the infirmary in plenty of time for your babysitting shift."

Clint reached out and shoved Tony with his free hand as Tony disconnected the call.

"Easy, Barton," Tony said. "You don't want to aggravate your delicate condition."

"You're one to talk, Stark," Clint snorted as he went back to tinkering.

He wasn't working on anything in particular but was simply enjoying the feeling of doing anything other than just laying around for days on end.

"You know, Romanoff never struck me as the mother hen type," Tony said conversationally.

"She never used to be," Clint admitted. "It took her a long time to learn that attachments weren't a weakness."

"Are you saying this is the warm and fuzzy Natasha Romanoff?" Tony said with exaggerated surprise. "There was once a scarier version?"

Clint laughed. "You shoulda seen her when we first liberated her from the Red Room. Even after she joined SHIELD she was still dangerous. She almost killed another recruit during her first sparring session."

"Sounds super fun," Tony commented. There was a pause. "You were the one who liberated her, weren't you?"

"Yep," Clint said shortly. He could suddenly feel pain building at the base of his skull, but he was doing his best to ignore it, as if denial could spare him from another episode. It was too soon anyway. It was probably unrelated.

"How did you know she could be saved?" Tony asked with an honest amount of curiosity.

"I've always been a good judge of character," Clint said with half a shrug. He concentrated hard on the small pieces of metal as he fused them together. He grimaced slightly as the pain increased, but Tony wasn't looking at him. _No, it's not happening it's too soon._ "I could tell there was more to her, a part of her that hated what she was and wanted to be better." He paused and then went on quietly. "I could relate to that."

Tony said something else, but Clint was suddenly distracted. He clenched his jaw, wishing he could stop this with sheer force of will. Unfortunately, he was at the mercy of this horrifically slow healing process. To spite him, a tremor wracked through his hand, sending the soldering gun clattering onto the work table. He cursed as the flame burned his other hand on the way down before it went out. Tony's gaze snapped over to him.

"Barton?" he said seriously.

"Hope you're ready for another bout," Clint said with a humorless laugh as he watched the tremors working their way up his arms.

Tony glanced down at his watch. "Little early for another episode, isn't it?"

Clint grimaced hard as the pain clamped his head in a vice and the fire burned through his veins. "Sorry to disappoint," he said through gritted teeth.

"Alright, up you go," Tony said quickly as he jumped up and threaded an arm behind Clint, helping him stumble to his feet. He was trying to sound casual but there was tension in this tone. "Let's get you all tucked in now, shall we?"

They were still a few steps from the cot when the pain suddenly took full hold and Clint's knees gave out. He heard his own voice give a pitiful yelp as if he were suddenly outside of his own body. He was barely aware of Tony tightening his hold on him and practically dragging him over to the cot.

"Okay, easy there, Barton, it's medicine time." Tony's voice came floating to him as if across a great distance.

He never felt the prick of the needle in his arm as the pain took over his every sense. He wasn't aware of the whimpering noise clawing up his throat as he curled in protectively on himself.

He lost all track of time as he rode out the waves of pain wracking through his body. His stomach rebelled, but thankfully there was nothing to expel, as he was still on an IV diet for this very reason. Of course, that didn't stop his stomach from doing it's damnedest to get rid of anything in it.

"Barton? Barton can you hear me?"

Finally, the world slowly came filtering back to him. He blinked several times, struggling to make sense of what was going on. He took a steadying breath before he concentrated on one sense at a time. He could feel that he was laying on his side on a soft mattress. He could hear people moving around nearby. He could smell the metallic atmosphere of Tony's lab.

Finally, the scene in front of him came into focus. Bruce was kneeling next to him, a stethoscope slung around his neck. Tony was standing behind him, looking worried.

"Wha'appened?" Clint slurred.

He hadn't had an episode that bad in days.

"I had to call in reinforcements when the antidote didn't immediately bring you back," Tony said.

"We had to up your dosage a little bit," Bruce told him as he sat back on his heels. "It was a little soon for you to be up and about too much, Barton. Probably why this episode was worse than the others."

"Walking down to Stark's lab is hardly being up and about, Doc," Clint sighed. He curled a little tighter in on himself as the pain in his head spiked for a moment.

"Clint, this poison almost killed you," Bruce reminded him gently. "It's _still_ trying to kill you. You're going to need to take it easy for more than a week and a half for your body to fully expel this poison so that you can really start to heal. You'll get better, but it's going to take time."

Clint sighed heavily as he rolled his eyes. "I'm gonna lose my mind laying in that damn hospital bed."

"I'll find you a book," Bruce said placatingly. Then he glanced back at Tony. "And you know Romanoff is going to come after you when she finds out we had to up his dose again because of this stunt."

"It was his idea!" Tony said indignantly.

"You really think she's going to go after him in his state?" Bruce pointed out, motioning to Clint who was pathetically curled into the fetal position on the cot.

Tony's eyes widened as the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

"Romanoff is gonna kill me, isn't she?" he mumbled, rubbing one hand on the back of his neck self-consciously.

Clint smirked. "I'd sleep with one eye open for a while, Stark."

* * *

 **THE FINAL PROMPT!  
** **THROWN AGAINST SOMETHING**


	31. Thrown Against Something

**Author's Note:** Wow! Here we are! I can hardly believe we've made it here! I first started working on these prompts about a year and a half ago. This has been such a long time coming! I know a lot of you were disappointed to see that this is the final chapter. This story was built off of thirty-one prompts (the original challenge was to do one prompt a day for a month, but I took it in a little bit of a different direction) and so... this is it! The last prompt that I have! The nature of how this is set up doesn't give much room for a definitive ending, but I tried my best to give it some sort of wrapped up feeling. So hopefully that comes across!

HUGE THANK YOU TO: **Valkyrie Black Water** ; **Sara** ; **Lesfont25** ; **JRBarton** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **sofiarose613** ; **YoungPrinceLou** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; and **anaticulapraecantrix**! Wow! I was so blown away by the reviews on the last chapter! You guys are seriously amazing and made writing this whole thing so worth it! I'm so glad you've enjoyed it so much! It means so much to me!

Okay. Here we go! The FINAL chapter!

* * *

 **CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE  
** **THROWN AGAINST SOMETHING**

Technically speaking, he hadn't missed.

She knew later he was going to fight her tooth and nail on that point. Sure, the first arrow hadn't been a definitive kill shot for the hostile that had been coming toward her while she had been busy taking down another, but the second arrow that came right behind it sure as hell did. That didn't count as a miss, he was going to say. He had still done with two arrows what most couldn't have accomplished with a sniper rifle and a scope in perfect conditions.

But for Natasha, it was a bright, waving red flag that Clint had been compromised in some way.

"Hawkeye, status," she snapped into her comm., unable to pause from the battle long enough to so much as glance up to the roof of the building where he was perched.

" _I'_ _m fine, how are you?_ "

Natasha openly rolled her eyes as she shot three more hostiles. She didn't believe that for a second. To the untrained ear, he would have sounded completely normal, but Natasha could hear the careful way he enunciated his words in order to hide an underlying tension.

"Don't you dare lie to me, Barton," Natasha growled. She caught Steve's eye, who was fighting nearby. He sent her a confused look as he listened to the exchange over the open comm. line, obviously not picking up on what she had.

" _Widow, seven o_ _'_ _clock._ " Clint's voice brought her back to the situation at hand. She spun around putting bullets into two more men just as two more arrows took out the third. Clint was now defaulting to a safety shot, firing in twos instead of his usual single shots. Something was definitely wrong. " _Keep your head in the game._ "

"I swear, Barton, if you're dying up there…" Natasha let the threat hang.

"Romanoff?" Steve called over to her.

"Something's wrong," was all that Natasha could say because that was the only fact that she knew for sure.

"Thor?" Steve directed into his comm. "What's your status? Can you make it to Hawkeye's location?"

" _Their numbers dwindle!_ " Thor announced. " _The end is in sight and then I shall go to Barton_ _'_ _s aid!_ "

Natasha didn't like that. She finally got an opening to glance up at the fifteen-story building, but from her angle she couldn't see Clint.

"Stark?" Natasha tried.

" _Little busy here, sweet cheeks._ "

Natasha didn't get the chance to reprimand him on the hated nickname as three more thugs charged her.

It did not escape her notice that even though their conversations were over the open line, Clint hadn't protested the order to send him aid. That fact made Natasha's stomach turn. But arrows were still flying through the battlefield, so she at least knew that he was still alive. For now, anyway.

At long last they had cleared the street of the invading army, Steve taking out the last handful with one last throw of his shield. After doing a quick sweep to make sure all the enemies were really down, Natasha's gaze shot back up to the building where Clint was supposed to be perched. She backed up a few steps trying to get a glimpse of the archer.

"Barton?" Natasha prodded over the comms., feeling more than a little uneasy that she couldn't see him.

" _Little help!_ "

Natasha's breath caught in her chest as she finally spotted Clint ducking into view to avoid a blow before swinging back with his bow. He dodged a second assault, which pushed him closer to the edge of the roof, using his bow again to counter, apparently out of arrows.

Several of the enemy soldiers had found his position.

"Thor, Stark!" Steve commanded. "Converge on Barton's location, hostiles have made his location."

Because it was painfully obvious that he or Natasha wouldn't make it to Clint in time.

" _On my way!_ " Thor announced.

" _Finishing up here and then I_ _'_ _ll be along,_ _"_ Stark reported.

"Thor, how far out are you?" Natasha demanded.

If he answered, she didn't register it.

Clint had pulled a knife, throwing it at an unseen assailant. He was already turning toward the next solider, but the man was too quick. The thug managed to get in a few good hits, and while Clint was teetering near the edge, the large man managed to get an arm around Clint's chest and bodily threw him into the wall of the adjacent building that rose up several more stories.

It happened so fast. Clint's head snapped back into the brick wall behind him. His entire body went boneless. And then he was falling.

"Clint!" Natasha shouted helplessly.

Steve was running forward, but Natasha remained rooted to the spot. She knew that there was nothing either her or Steve could do from down here. Her knees almost gave out as she stared at the scene with wide-eyed horror.

Thunder rumbled through the clear blue sky as a red and gray blur flew toward Clint. Natasha cried out in relief as Thor swooped in, snagging Clint out of his free fall with an arm wound under his armpits, jerking him suddenly out of his free fall.

Suddenly Natasha was moving, her feet carrying her toward Clint even as her brain struggled to catch up with the turn of events. Steve managed to reach them first, just as Thor carefully reached the ground. Steve reached up to brace Clint on his other side as he and Thor lowered him to the ground. Clint immediately went to a knee, leaning forward as he struggled to catch his breath. It was some kind of miracle that he was still conscious.

Natasha finally reached them and immediately dropped to a knee next to Clint.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," Clint panted before she could even ask, waving off the concern with one hand while bracing the other against the ground.

"What happened?" Natasha demanded even as she started looking him over herself. Because she had learned long ago not to trust Clint's self-assessments.

"Couple of 'em… got the drop on me with the roof access," Clint said, struggling to even out his breathing, his features still tense. "One managed to clip me. I took them out, but another group snuck up on me just now."

Without bothering to ask for permission, Natasha reached around and felt the back of his head. She quickly found the spot where his head had hit the wall. There was no blood but a hell of a bump. She shifted back in front of him and took in the way he was blinking hard, as if trying to clear his vision. Highly likely he had a pretty good concussion, but if that's all they had to deal with she'd consider this a minor incident in the grand scheme of things.

"All bad guys are down," Tony announced as he landed next to the group and raised his face plate. "Also, I think Barton might be using a different definition of _'_ _a couple_ _'_ than the rest of us. I took out the two that were left up there but there were already twelve dead bad guys up there."

Natasha glared at the sheepish look that Clint shot her.

"You should have called for backup," Steve scolded.

"I had it covered until one guy got a lucky shot and knocked me off the building," Clint defended petulantly.

"You said you got clipped?" Natasha prodded impatiently as her gaze searched for the injury.

"It's not bad," Clint assured her as he pushed himself upright with a wince.

Natasha's gaze immediately zeroed in on the dark stain on his uniform over his side.

"Clint, you didn't get clipped, you got shot!" Natasha gasped, automatically reaching out to put pressure on the injury.

"Wha'?" Clint murmured, his brow furrowing in honest confusion before he grimaced hard at her touch.

Steve was suddenly kneeling next to her. "No exit wound," he reported grimly. "Here, sit back." He gently helped Clint sit and stretch out his legs in front of him. Natasha moved with them, keeping pressure on the wound.

"We need to stem the bleeding and get him back to the jet," Natasha snapped.

She pulled bandages from a compartment at her belt and began firmly packing it into the wound with one hand while holding pressure around the wound with the other. Clint yelped in pain at the action, instinctively flinching away from the new agony that Natasha knew that she was inflicting.

"I... I thought..." Clint stammered hoarsely, still sounding horribly confused about what was happening. He honestly hadn't realized how bad the wound was.

"Take it easy," Natasha tried to assure him as she continued to work, hoping to keep him from crossing over into full blown panic. "It's not that bad, we just need to get you back to Bruce at the jet and he'll get you patched up better than I can."

The lie tasted bitter in her mouth. She could tell by how quickly the gauze was soaking through that this was bad. She sent a tense look over at Steve who was helping to support Clint, telling the Captain without words that she was seriously worried. Steve caught her eye and gave a very small nod in understanding.

"Tony," Steve said lowly and evenly, glancing over his shoulder at him. "Head over to the jet and prep Bruce on the situation. We'll meet you there."

"On it," Tony agreed stoically before dropping his faceplate and taking off.

Natasha finished packing the wound and placed a patch of gauze over the whole thing and then held her hand firmly over top of it. Clint groaned lowly, squeezing his eyes shut against the renewed pain, but Natasha didn't dare let up any pressure.

"We need to move him, and I need to keep pressure on it," Natasha said tensely, looking between Steve and Thor for a plan.

"I can carry him," Thor volunteered, stepping forward.

"Take it nice and easy," Natasha instructed.

Moving with surprising gentleness for the large god, Thor crouched down and threaded one hand under Clint's knees and the other behind his bad. He met Natasha's eyes and they rose to their feet together, Thor careful to keep Clint low enough so that Natasha could continue to apply pressure to the wound.

Under normal circumstances, Clint would have vehemently protested being carried like this. Natasha had lost count of how many times she had argued with him until she was blue in the face to have him carried out of a mission that he had come out on the worse end of. Against even Bruce's medical advice, Clint had limped away from missions with everything from broken limbs to collapsed lungs to concussions. If it were any kind of humanly possible for him to move at least partially on his own accord, he would fight tooth and nail for that.

Natasha's stomach twisted into a knot as she watched Clint have no reaction to being picked up, his eyes still squeezed shut. That alone spoke volumes. As Thor was settling him in his grasp, Clint shifted slightly, wincing as a low yelp hummed up his throat. One of his hands reached over and rested on top of Natasha's hands which she still held firmly over the wound. He turned his head and squinted at her blearily.

"'m sorry, Nat," he mumbled. "Di'n't think I got hit."

"It's okay," she assured him quietly. "You're going to be okay."

And then they were moving.

It was an awkward process as they tried to balance the need for haste with the need for Natasha to keep constant pressure on Clint's gunshot wound. Steve ended up falling in beside Natasha, mostly to help steady her when she would inevitably trip while hurrying along at an uncomfortable sideways angle.

The Quinjet was already rumbling to life as they finally hit the ramp.

"Put him here," Bruce directed them immediately as they entered the jet, the ramp coming up behind them.

As Thor settled Clint onto the cot at one side of the jet – Natasha moving with him and kneeling next to the cot – she took stock of Clint under the bright fluorescent light. He was pale with a sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead, his breath coming in heavy gasps.

"Clint?" Bruce said as he was taking Clint's pulse. "You still conscious, buddy?"

"Kinda," Clint murmured.

"Try and open you eyes for me, okay?"

As Clint blinked his eyes open, Natasha felt relieved that he still seemed fairly coherent and aware of what was going on. She barely noticed the jet lifting off with Tony in the pilot seat.

"He hit his head pretty hard," Natasha added, unsure if Tony had passed on that information. "Probably has a concussion."

Bruce nodded, but it went without saying that was the least of their problems at the moment.

"Heart rate is high," Bruce murmured almost to himself. As he grabbed a blood pressure cuff, he glanced at Natasha. "No exit wound?"

"No," she confirmed quietly, shaking her head.

"Was the blood pulsing?"

She shook her head again. "He didn't even notice it until I pointed it out."

Bruce paused to check Clint's blood pressure. "Not great," he murmured, sending Natasha a concerned look. "Let me see the entry wound."

Natasha took a deep breath as she eased up on the pressure and lifted her hands. There was blood on her hands. A lot of blood. Too much blood for a packed wound, she realized with a sinking heart even before her gaze dropped down to the gauze that was now completely soaked through.

Natasha looked to Bruce for help, her eyes quietly begging him for an assurance that everything was going to be okay, that they could fix this.

Bruce took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "Put the pressure back," Natasha's hands were already back on the wound, "on while we talk about options here for a minute." Bruce replaced his glasses as he shifted so that he could address Natasha as well as Steve and Thor who were standing a few steps behind them. "Tony's got us pointed at the nearest SHIELD base with a significant medical facility, but it's at least an hour away." He looked at Natasha. "What are the protocols when it comes to civilian hospitals?"

Natasha shook her head firmly. "Not an option abroad like this."

"But if he's not going to make it to the SHIELD base—" Steve started, but Natasha cut him off.

"He's not going to make it _out_ of a hospital anywhere near here. He's a SHIELD assassin, there are too many crime syndicates around here that will recognize his face."

Steve gave a deep sigh before focusing back on Bruce. "So, what are our options for keeping him going long enough to get to the SHIELD base?"

"I'm not equipped or skilled enough to do surgery here to find and fix the internal bleeding," Bruce said stoically. "Our best option is to use hemostatic dressings to hopefully help him clot enough to make it to the SHIELD base and hope that the clot holds in place and doesn't cause a pulmonary embolism."

There was a beat of silence before all eyes turned to Natasha. It made sense that this decision would fall on Natasha's shoulders. Despite now being part of the Avengers, Clint and Natasha were still very much a team. Natasha knew the controversial nature of hemostatic dressings. They usually worked best as a short-term solution in order to buy time. An hour was pushing it though. The dressing might work fine and buy them the time they needed, or it might make things a whole lot worse.

Natasha turned her gaze back to Clint. Bruce had obviously felt like they had time to stop and have this conversation based on Clint's vitals, but it was also clear that he was getting worse. He was pale and ashy, his breathing getting more labored. His head shifted, and his eyes drifted up to her. His gaze was cloudy, but she could see the trust in his eyes as he looked at her. He at least had a vague grasp of what was going on and was trusting Natasha to fix it.

Natasha took a deep breath as she looked back at Bruce, resolve steeling in her eyes. "Do it," she said firmly. "Use the hemostatic dressing."

Bruce nodded as he immediately started gathering his supplies.

"I'm sorry, Clint, but this is going to hurt," Bruce explained as he tore open the packaging for two of the hemostatic dressings. "There will be a burning sensation, but it should pass quickly. Then we'll get you on some painkillers and fluids and you should start feeling better." He looked at Natasha. "Go ahead and unpack the wound. We need to do this right now."

Natasha's hands moved mechanically as she pulled the bandages from the wound, having to tug firmly to pull it from where the blood had dried and sending more blood leaking sluggishly down his side. She deliberately ignored the low groan that crawled up Clint's throat and the way that his muscles tensed and spasmed as she worked. That didn't bode well if just this part caused pain.

God, she hoped she had made the right decision.

She had barely finished pulling the bandages free when Bruce was gently nudging her out of the way and up toward Clint's head. The doctor gave no warning, probably trying not to drag this out any longer than they already had. He immediately started firmly repacking the wound with the hemostatic dressing. For a moment, Clint didn't have much of a reaction. Then, all at once his muscles tensed, his back arching up away from the cot. His jaw was clenched as he tried and failed to swallow the cry of pain that ground itself out between his teeth.

Natasha caught his hand as it came up off the cot – oblivious to the blood still coating her own hands – and held it tightly.

"Easy, easy, I got you," Natasha tried to assure him quietly as she bowed her head next to his. "It's just a moment in time, it will pass. Just breathe. Just keeping breathing. It's okay."

It was force of habit that had her tensing when she suddenly felt another presence beside her. She looked up to find Steve crouched at the head of the cot, his hand reached out and bracing Clint's shoulder.

"Hang in there, Clint," Steve implored, his face drawn with worry.

Thor, god of thunder, knelt humbly at the foot of the cot, placing a hand on Clint's shin in a gesture of support as he spoke softly. "It will be alright."

For just a moment, Natasha could only marvel at this team. Bruce holding steady pressure on Clint's gunshot wound. Steve and Thor offering what support they could. Tony flying the jet like a bat out of hell toward the nearest SHIELD base to get Clint the medical help he desperately needed.

They had come a long way from having no one to watch their backs but each other and Phil.

At long last, Clint's muscles slowly relaxed. His breaths came in short gasps and he was even more startlingly pale in the fluorescent lights, sweat now soaking the mattress underneath him. He blinked blearily as his head rolled toward Natasha, pulling her hand closer to his temple for comfort.

"Hard part's over," she assured him quietly as Bruce taped the dressing firmly in place and then turned to start setting up IVs of fluids, antibiotics and a blood transfusion. She sent another glance around at the quiet vigil that was gathered around Clint's cot and couldn't help the slight smile that pulled at her lips. " _We've_ got you." The plural adjustment to the statement was small but significant. "You're going to be okay."

* * *

There was something tapping firmly on the palm of his upturned hand. He focused on the sensation, his muddled mind automatically translating the Morse code. _S… A… F…E…. S…A…F…E…. S…A…F…E…. S…A…F…E…._

He took several deep breaths, carefully bringing himself back to consciousness. The tapping paused. Clint recognized the smell of the hospital before groggily blinking his eyes open, wincing slightly against the fluorescent light.

Movement caught his eye and he shifted to take in his surroundings. The familiar shock of red was just approaching the foot of the bed he was lying in. That threw him for a moment since he associated the Morse code message with Natasha. He shifted his gaze to see that it was Steve sitting at his bedside, giving him a relieved smile.

A soft pat on his leg had Clint looking back at Natasha. She raised her hands.

"Steve took over so that I could get some rest," she signed slowly, reading his expression. As she said it, Clint did notice that she was blinking a bit sleepily. Another glance around the room revealed a chair pushed up into the corner with a blanket draped over it.

"Sorry," Clint murmured.

"Don't apologize," Natasha signed with a playful glare. "I have been convinced that it's not your fault, even though you should," she tilted her head forward to put emphasis on the word, "have called in back up the first time you had been found."

Suddenly, Tony appeared next to Natasha. His hands were moving almost as quickly as his lips as he sloppily signed. But he was angled a little too much toward Natasha and he was moving too fast for Clint's fogged brain to keep up with. Just trying to figure out what he was signing made Clint feel dizzy.

"Slow down," Natasha signed as she spoke to Tony, sending him an annoyed look. "He is concussed, remember? Also, your sign language still needs some work."

Tony rolled his eyes. Then he moved his hands comically slow. "I. Resent." He gave a bored, dismissive wave in Natasha's direction. Then his hands were moving quickly again. Clint caught the sign for "jealous" and "sexy" mixed in there, along with what looked strangely like the sign for pineapple. Judging by Natasha's eyeroll accompanied by an involuntarily amused smirk, "pineapple" wasn't what Tony was going for.

Bruce was next to appear, carefully but firmly moving Tony away from the bed while Tony's lips were still moving.

Bruce glanced at Clint and put a hand up to make sure he had his attention before he started with his slow, measured display of sign language. "Let's give Clint some space," Bruce signed as he glanced around.

Clint, following Bruce's line of sight, saw that Tony had retreated to a corner of the room along with Thor, and the two of them were signing haphazardly to each other. Thor still struggled with the concept of sign language and while Tony wasn't great when he was hyper and his hands moved quicker than he could think, he was actually pretty solid with his sign language. So, the two of them practicing together tended to work out well since Thor caused Tony to slow down and Tony couldn't stop himself from correcting Thor's mistakes.

"How do you feel?" Bruce signed.

"Tired," Clint murmured.

He guessed that the word didn't come out terribly intelligible, judging by the confused look on Bruce's face as he sent an unsure look at Natasha. Clint's limbs felt too heavy to lift both of his arms, so he lifted just one hand and finger-spelled the word.

Bruce nodded, looking relieved. "That is likely the painkillers. You had a pretty good concussion and also needed surgery for your gunshot injury. You were very lucky. None of your organs were damaged and the surgeons were able to repair the internal bleeding. You will need to take it easy for a while, but in time you will make a full recovery."

Bruce's sign language was generally pretty good, but Clint was impressed by Bruce's medical vocabulary considering he hadn't been studying the language all that long. Judging by the proud look on Bruce's face, Clint guessed that he had practiced the speech quite a bit and Clint gave him a weak but appreciative smile.

Steve leaned forward, putting a careful hand up to shift Clint's attention. "You gave us quite a scare." Steve's signs were still slow and halting and he still looked to Natasha for affirmation after each sentence. Natasha gave him an encouraging nod. "You need to stop doing that to us."

Clint gave a quiet snort of a laugh.

Clint could feel the bed vibrating as suddenly Thor thundered over to the bed. His hands moved clumsily and his face was eager, but Clint couldn't even begin to try and translate. It wasn't that Thor's attempt at sign language was difficult to understand, it was that Clint couldn't help but laugh at the over-the-top nature of Thor's facial expressions. This had been an issue ever since Clint tried to explain to him that expressions were important for communicating tone with sign language.

From there, Clint could practically feel the vibrations in the air. Lips were moving, hands were signing, but Clint didn't bother himself with trying to translate any of it. Instead, he simply he looked around – Tony, Steve, Thor, Bruce, Natasha – all at his bedside and all working with their various levels of sign language.

He suddenly remembered back to when he had permanently lost his hearing after a SHIELD mission. He had been so afraid of losing contact with the hearing world and being isolated. His father had never had any patience for trying to communicate with Clint when he was little and first damaged his hearing and Clint had unknowingly taken that to be a reflection of the world that he would always live in.

When Phil had so willingly learned sign language after that disastrous mission, Clint had written it off as Phil simply going above and beyond like he always did. When Natasha had learned sign language after they had been partnered together, Clint had assumed it was just her being practical. Outside of the two of them, Clint kept himself on the outskirts of groups over the years, feeling like it would just be easier to keep to himself. Even with joining the Avengers, outside of missions he just naturally felt like he should keep his distance.

It was suddenly so painfully clear how wrong he was with this mindset. This was more than just a team for missions. This entire dynamic went further than just professional courtesy in the field. Somewhere along the way, this team had become his new family.

A dip in the mattress shifted Clint's attention to Natasha settling herself on the edge of the bed. She smiled and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. No words needed to be exchanged between them. She understood. And she felt the same way.

Clint took a deep breath, a smile at his lips as he allowed the painkillers to lull him back into a peaceful sleep, comforted by the fact that he was surrounded by his family.

* * *

 **Author's Note: **And there you have it! Hopefully this feels at least kind of wrapped up. Again, thank you to _ANYONE_ who has taken the time to review _ANY_ chapters of this story! I'm so glad so many people have enjoyed reading this as much as I've loved writing this!

And for those of you who are bummed this is over… fear not! I do have more stories in the works for those interested! I have two main projects that I am currently working on. The first is a short novella that is an Avengers High School AU. A little out of my usual wheelhouse, but this idea just kind of ran away with me. I want to get it a little further along before I start posting it, so look for it in the next couple weeks! I'm also still working on the sequel to _Out of the Ashes_ for those who remember that little piece! I'm hoping to finally start making strides with that story so that I can start posting that soon as well! Both of these stories will also be big on Clint whump! So hopefully that's good news to those who are sad this story is ending!

Well then… stay out of trouble, make good choices and I will hopefully see you next time! :)


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